Birthday Poem by Michael Shann

Each sweet year since we moved here
I've walked out on the eve of your birthday
when we'd settled you all in your beds,
and in the dark March garden I've gathered
the fallen camellia blooms, big as rosettes,
pink and frivolous as blown wonders,
when held up to the stars,
from the ocean's interstellar depths.

And if there weren't enough blooms
I've plucked more blossom straight from the tree
until the bucket was pink brimming and ready.
Then I've dribbled a new number across the grass,
letting the wet waxy petals slip through my fingers
like the days we've had no days to remember.

And when the number was large on the lawn
I've stepped back, knowing it wouldn't be seen
properly, in proportion, until soon after dawn
when you peeped between curtains
for proof of how old you suddenly were.