Today is the birthday
of a love of my life.
Not 'the' (implying singular) because
love is never singular,
it takes two.

Today is the birthday of
a love through my life
who flies (implying graceful) stories from feathers,
who transforms planks of wood into
platforms and pulpits and potential.

Today his birthday, whose children are
the first romantic tragedy
the depths of a suffering soul
the honest daughter, punished
the honorable man, framed
the *** made out of the bottom
the poetry, carefully manipulated
from our once bare lonesome world.

Today is his birthday and his last day,
his life as circuitous as his shrine,
the citadel to his soul.
Today I celebrate and mourn him,
a love in my life since our first quiet encounter
in a bright second floor classroom.
I knew nothing of our tangled future
but this: he spoke, I listened and through the
tunnel of years between us the message stayed strong.

Today is his birth and death (not quite dead
but not alive) and I mourn for not knowing him
sooner or fuller and I celebrate
for knowing him still and yearning,
struggling to understand his children.