Ts a year again and we wake up to the sight of you older,
Not that the age counts
Just that they symbolise how wiser you’re becoming.
It’s another year and I look around
And see that you’re still around to restore my heart.
As you mark your earthly anniversary,
Count me amongst the candles you’ll make wishes for.
I pray you make this wish,
That as your star takes another stroll through the sky
I’ll walk on in a path of love with you.
“Happy birthday my love. Infinity and beyond remains our destiny.”
An Ode to a Natal Star.
Often, when a man extends a bouquet
To his beloved on the wee of her birthday,
He beholds upon the blithe it sends her into.
He wishes that just as the vase holds upon the flowers-
So will the clasp of her fingers
With sweet violence wring
Out the love that abodes in his temple.
In that tempest, conceal it in her locket.
When the petals wilt,
They will not wither into ashes for an urn.
They will wilt into embers that glow upon every stroke of iron.
At the glimmer of every ember
Her heart will be replenished.
A heart that rests upon the hinges of air
And hold sway to only his whispers.
When she blows off the candles on the cake,
A darkness ensues that is lighted by the
Twilight that climbs from the horizons of her age.
In every spark of time she adds,
The galaxy adds onto its broom of constellations.
Upon the foreboding of wrinkles,
Is a glaring cast of dancing twinkles.
When she whets her tongue to pronounce a wish,
Most a times out of the bouts of joy,
Enlivened by the abundance of its emptiness.
Out of ceremony a wish is made
And boxed in the muse and ribbons of carols,
With the cheers of friends and kins.
When the day is over
And the sands trickle back into emptiness of tomorrow,
Till the day when butterflies will be summoned
To flap their wings on another winsome day.
There will be no thoughts of the wishes not lived.
As she makes her wishes,
The man will write back in return,
For every clime her words resound in,
In their telepathy, they tether their souls to a thread.
In its firmness, when wind blows past them,
It will swing them both to a new milieu.
A field where they become pastures to themselves
To fade and nourish on all their hues.
When all the pleasantries are at bay
And the guests are dusted with the chuckles of dancing feet.
The man will walk her to the window.
Dotting her with tales of the beauty she’s become
By the touch of his lips on hers of henna,
After which he whisks her away.