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Thirty-three: the age Christ died on the cross.
Has one need for birthdays more than this?
In such short span one may our souls revise,
Remake our worlds and liberate our eyes,
Terrify us with the threat of bliss--
Yet years roll on with neither gain nor loss.
The secret of happiness is always love,
However long one lives. Birthdays wheel
Round and round this truth like raucous cries,
Eased into a vast silence, unreal,
Eased into a calm winds cannot move.
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
