I’m not sure whether it is a
tradition of mine to write a poem
on my birthday or not.
But if it isn’t, it should be.
This particular birthday finds me
sitting on a garden bench seat,
once owned by my grandparents,
enjoying the chatter of birds and
nursing a head-cold.
As is my want, I am musing on the
ideal metaphor for the aging process.
Currently I am favouring standing
atop a shiny board that is gradually
being lifted from one end.
Each inch that it is raised makes
the process of remaining upright
that much more difficult and hastens the slide.
Then there is the fine wine that becomes
more succulent as the years pass
until it turns and begins to take
on a vinegary quality.
For now, I think I’ll go and pour a
cup of tea. It’s been brewing
for fifty-three years…
it should be just about right.