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August 21, 2007 |
It was a birthday I had dreaded for months,
The threshold to Ancient & Historic,
Brooding over how I was so young once
And never would be again (alas, poor Yorick),
And then came the day itself, so very ordinary,
Quiet, dappled with sun, delightful. (And swift.)
One fine plain day on our excellent prairie,
And the ordinariness was its great gift.
Nothing happened. Coffee, fried eggs, and bacon,
A hot shower, the ordinary stuff of happiness,
To which I hope every morning to awaken
Until one day I don't, which is not for me to guess.
You turn thirty, forty, fifty, and then (O my God) sixty-five,
And it's all the same: to be (simply, deliciously) alive.