I'm not the fan of birthdays.
With them comes wrapping paper,
confetti, and cake...
and reminders of daunting ideas pushed aside.

Reminders of all the things I have yet to do,
and the terrifying idea that I am not immortal.
I will not last forever, here.

I am sculpting myself into a person,
of which I am only partially fond.
And with each passing hour, day and year,
I am reminded of the quickly hardening clay
of this sculpture that is me.

My hands rush to pick up the pace,
as I solidify  before my eyes.
My work becomes sloppy,
my hands become ragged,
my movements--
previously so natural and unconscious--
become frantic and desperate
as I become increasingly aware of my potential
slowly falling away,
with each missed moment.,
each birthday candle,
each tick of a clock.

So here I am on the floor.
Looking up at my  sculpture.
Face, hands, hair covered in drying clay.
I am left not with the question can I do it,
no,
simply will I do it?

Will I allow myself to be that change,
to make my mark,
to empower, create, and grow.
Will I let myself me powerful beyond measure?

So,
happiest birthday to this little soul,
so small and fragile.
With so much to give,
and so much to take.
And with only so many breaths left,
to get it all done.