Birthdays on the Moon

I have now lived inside 

twenty six 

of your birthdays. 

so much cake, imagine

and late-summer honey, my love, 

sang maudlin odes to long forgotten grapes

winced at some aches and bruises, 

smiled away the grey hair. 

I’ve had more years with you than years without you. 

A heavy thing to say, and yet I feel no weight

(none of that ‘river of time’ silliness, 

you know, when people shake their heads,

when their eyes grow dull with woes and future

and when they say, in their Sunday voice: ‘Time-oh, time

like a river flowing all too fast and relentless and 

biting, bending us down,
wearing us thin, crushing us’;
what utter nonsense.)

No. 

But let’s say

‘river’ were the only metaphor 

in the entire world of words.

Then here,

(my love, on your day)

have a river:

Made of light,

which is what you get

when you blend sun and soul.

And made of waves, each one a story,  

woven (with a child's uneven strokes)

from memory and dream, 

a bit of you and a bit of me,

a sprinkling of starry kids, 

peaks, breaking the cotton of clouds

random houses twinkling for a moment, like homes 

untameable pets,

virtues and sins,

salt-crusted collarbones

from diving, swimming, chasing,

always and each summer, storm and sea,

to catch your wave.