Today is the last time I’ll see
your birthday on my calendar.
Next year it will be left to memory and care
if its is to be kept and observed.
What I recall of what I wrote
means little in the light
Of the winter shade and the horror
That the lord has made.
In that time you have celebrated
Clasmir Palaski Day, but I wasn’t near
enough to give you a golden rod or 4H stone.
Even if the nurse’s head didn’t hang so low,
He still takes, and he takes, and he
Saw the texts but couldn’t read
And wondered all night if
Of you, again, he’d ever see,
As did I, he held my hand
Taking words, having left the screams.
We’re all beginners when it comes to love.
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