The number’s passed above
The point of being meaningless.
The years are indistinct;
Memory’s grown dim
Or gone entirely dark.
Just sitting I could be
Anything from forty to a hundred;
Moving on my feet
I fancy that I’m fifty, sixty most.
But a week ago I turned six twelves,
Half a dozen dozens,
And blew out a single candle,
Very fat (like me)
While my children and grandchildren sang.
And though I often can’t remember
Like people’s names
Or what I had for lunch on Tuesday,
I’m blessed by knowing,
Who I am
And whom I love.
©2013 John I. Blair