Happy Birthday
how is it that a day makes a difference?
it doesn't...and yet
last nite, the cold sky was jeweled in stars
above the black curve of the moonless hill
this morning, serpents of mist from the pond
rose to kiss the bright and rising sun
yesterday we read the news of the
high school shooting
speculating the insanity of a boy
and the denial of a spoiled culture
you are 20 years old today
she is 40
you could have it all tonite
while the dawn greets your home in flames
down to the ground
in memorium
with all the wars' lost and brave
how old was Job when the winds began to shift?
there's no point to paranoia
but intuition smell the potholes
and avoids the smashing trees
though blessed, we walk on thin ice
the dull knife cuts it's master
the drowsy wheel slides off the road
wide awake, with nothing, now
all directions beckon
with all your books and poems ashes
what words will you commit to first?
remember how you came this way
naked and unlisted
and how you'll leave again some day
without a stitch or sterling
yesterday we washed the car
today it's covered in the ashes
of our friend's piano
the luminous goldfinch flys over the garden
over the roses and over the cellar
where the house just stood
over the cafeteria of the slain and
blood stained
over the parade of weapons and wars
(for freedom?)
over your birthday candles
how is it that a day makes a difference?
breathing deep the purple lilacs
imagining the diva emerging, effusive
from the flames
roasting marshmallows with the jester
melting all the guns and T.V. sets
sprouting vigorous as pine cones
forest's charred and ravaged floor
raising the ruby glass to poetic life
blowing out your candles
making the wish for peace
5/98
R. Zukowski
for Scott, Susan, Phil, Sugar,
Amanda, Brook, Lily,
and the whole forest
Editor's Note: This poem was written during the week when the author's wife celebrated her birthday, the Thurston High School shooting occurred in Springfield, Oregon, and a neighbor's house tragically burned to the ground.