On his birthday, my partner introduced me to this tradition he has, of writing himself a birthday sonnet. He read me a few from the last few years. They weren’t festive. Rather, they attempted to encapsulate sentiments for another year of life past, goals moving forward, what could be or could have been. They weren’t depressing, either! Just that particular combination of warm and cold often characterizing the thoughts of an adult on their birthday—another milepost on the mortal road.
I decided to take up the tradition myself, and for my birthday—July 9th—I’m going to break the usual mold of my weekly column by instead submitting my birthday sonnet. Because I can. It’s my birthday.
Juggling eggs, each one the one and only.
They’re potential, and serious; each a
transparent pre-hatchling, each a creature
worth being, but utterly, totally.
I struggle to warm one long enough
in hand for limbs to form, stretch, and break out
of their thin cast, to be. Be! Not without
dropping the others, equally worthy.
But, this is not adolescence. I have
people to love. I know how to behave
with my dance partner, how to turn one-half
ways, to cast us as upward entities,
unite momentum. No master. No slave.
Published by the West Seattle Herald 07/09/2016.