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Poem For My Birthday
by Barbara Crooker

It's November, light of amber, plum clouded sunsets,
the remaining leaves somber, russets and umber,
the last bits of color before winter's muslin
dropcloths are laid down.

God of the ginkgo trees, whose little lemon fans
have fallen, God of the red oaks, still hanging
on, hear my birthday prayer:

Send me a heart of gratitude for this long afternoon
of goldenrod light falling across my typewriter
and a sky so blue I want to bite it like an apple.
Let me walk in deep leaves on the way to dinner,
scuffling and kicking my Buster Brown shoes
like a nine-year-old girl.

Let the blackboard of the sky be full of stars,
writing all the old stories. When I go back to work,
let me write one good thing that is true.

This afternoon, two crows were arguing off
in the distance; they both want the last word.
So do I.

First published by: Passager

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