Thirty One

It's an odd year. Even the best
Numerological charlatans strain
To adduce any astral significance.
It's not the age anyone attributes
A great change to--no climacteric,
No legal shift in rights, restrictions,
Or random cultural signifiers. It is
An age I lived through once myself,
And when I review my little, internal,
Infernal calendar, even I can't find
Much ado that was done. I started
In Maine at a rainy campsite, ended
In Alabama on a city campus, so,
So enough about that nothing much
That was me. I wish you more
And better, much more. Be well,
Be wise, be charmed by the well-
Worn landscapes of melting time,
Be good and happy with yourself,
With your child as her mother,
With your mother as her child,
Be brave and adventuresome even
Sitting at home cutting bolts of cloth
Out the blue skies that fold blankets
Into sudden monsoons, be calm
When the waters rise, be pleased
If your thirty-second year disproves
The pattern I began by adumbrating

Here, be amazed by the subtle ways
The world discovers all in nothing's
Quiet crystal ball, be free, be with me.