My old friend Father Time made his annual visit this past week, cleverly disguised as my 52nd birthday.  I knew who he was immediately; have for some years now.  We stood toe to toe for most of the day.  In the end, the best we could do was acknowledge that we'd meet again.  I know he'll be the victor at some point, but for now, to quote the Black Knight: "Alright.  We'll call it a draw."
     In keeping with the situation, today's verse is a piece I wrote two years ago on the occasion of my 50th birthday.  Keep in mind as you are reading that I enjoy watching birds at the feeders in my yard.

The Poet on his 50th Birthday

 

Ever the heralds of first light;

of falsely immortal mid-day;

of looming, long-shadowed twilight;

and the feeder empties quickly.

I'm slower to the refill now.

 

 

     The title of this poem is the only time you will ever see or hear me refer to myself as a poet.  Robert Frost said that poet is not a name you give yourself, but that someone else gives you.  I have a little story concerning just that, but it will wait for another time.

     It's a beautiful spring morning and I'm heading out to do some yardwork and, hopefully, spend the better part of the day and evening sitting near a campfire.  To borrow another line from my favorite poet, "You come, too."