If my birth date moves in its usual trajectory, it will come to mind occasionally today, perhaps due to a miscreant well-wisher, then briefly linger in the shadows, and finally pass on without raising much fuss.
Breakfast, a present to myself – a scone smothered in bittersweet Damson plum jam and a cup of black tea.
I notice I've penned words that portend more ruckus than calm: "smothered" – in unwanted well wishes; "bittersweet" – good to be alive, bad to be older; "black" – the shadow-mood of aging.
a plum bruised
from the fall
waning moon –
rattle of leaves
on the plum tree