On The Eve Of Turning 36

I have been thinking of you –

the seed I never sowed

the bun I never baked.

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I feel it –

the eleventh month

of my body

and the calendar.

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Tomorrow will be my birthday.

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My spring is gone

and although it is November,

summer is upon me –

rude in its ripening

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November harvests the womb –

with its incessant ticking

of my youth.

Tick – I’m still here

Tock – But I’m fading away.

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I see it when I touch the silver curls.

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I would have loved you, you know?

The seed I never sowed.

The bun I never baked.

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And I think of the women before me –

how they loved.

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What am I supposed to do with all of this love?

reserved for a bun that will never rise?

a seed that never stood the chance of being sowed

in the earth?

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What would they say?

The Virgos

with their impending wisdom?

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I think I know –

especially the first Virgo,

a little rougher than the second.

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“Scorpio!” They would say.

“Dancing temptress and venomous blood flow through you.”

“But unlike the scorpion, who eats her mate –

You –

bake and love,

and cook and love,

and sing and love,

and write and love,

and give your heart

to all that has meaning.”

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So while November harvests,

and summer so rudely ripens,

and the scorpion eats her mate,

and the womb keeps incessantly ticking –

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I will not fear tomorrow

or the ticking of the empty womb.

For it is not baking a bun

nor sowing a seed

that makes me a woman.

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And I have so much love left to give

and many more miles to keep giving –

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and baking

and cooking

and singing

and writing

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and loving

and loving

and loving

and loving.

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