The tree
is teaching me
the beauty
of its blossom
that it is not enough
to notice or like it
but that I must
love it.
The tree is preaching
to the converted
but I listen politely
as both branch and blossom
write their signature
upon this
Parisian evening.
I sit and sit
absinthe
watching myslef
in the hall of mirrors
that this cafe
provides
as if all the people
that I've been
have come
to celebrate
this birthday.
I watch past selves
observe this self
I've come
to be
and hope
that they are happy
with
me.
Dónall Dempsey
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ahh-hh-c-est-la-vie-ce-n-est-pas-being-a-birthday-poem-for-miss-ruthie/
