The seventh minute of the seventh hour
of the seventh day of any New Year
is neither famed nor profaned—and therefore
I proclaim it the perfect moment for
me to waken. It is my un-birthday
in this snowy garden where I planted
myself and four trees—two evergreen and
two dormant—flowering dogwood and
white lilac—hope and continuity
in this little corner of the cosmos.
Where I am steward. Where I’m stewarded.
On this ordinary day, my love grounds
and launches in the particulars outbeyond itself to see what love can do.
For my prompt at Poets United Midweek Motif ~ January Seventh
Copyright © 2015 S.L.Chast