Sunday, February 1, 2015

That Day

However real the real might be—
Its flavor’s ever ordinary—
Memory renders what has been
Oddly wondrous and romantic,
Matched sometimes by the actual
As on this morning by a snowstorm:
It hazes up what’s long endured.

Some five point one-eight billion
Babies, three of them your own, have come
Down to these shattered shores (to put
The thing statistically) since you
Were born—came crying, flailing, in
Awe, in celebration, we don’t
Know—the Many of whom, for me,
You are the One. Happy Birthday.


  1. Thank you, my dear Poet Laureate! I love you, too!
    How clever of you to unearth a photo of the two of us dancing... a rarer event in our 50-plus years together than finding a four-leaved clover in our backyard.

  2. What a lovely poem, indeed.
    Happy birthday, Mom.


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