Last week I celebrated my 36th birthday. The gift I bought myself, a six week one-on-one poetry workshop with Megan Falley kicks off tonight – I couldn’t be more excited. I wrote a lot last week, eight poems – I tweeted late Saturday evening that I wrote seven poems in seven days but I then wrote another poem just before bed. I’ve been writing quite a bit lately and I know the workshop will inspire me to write more. One of the poems I wrote last week was written the last day of my 35th year.

On the Eve of My 36th Birthday

I stare at myself in the mirror,

noticing the wrinkles that appear

       when I smile,

the gray hair streaking through,

the extra pounds.

I stare at the accomplishments –

                 the big paycheck by 30,

                 the house, the car,

                 the name – 

                                borrowed and then returned.

I think of the degrees,

                   the titles,

                   the business cards 

                   I hand out like candy.

I think of the

good wine I can afford to drink and the

good friends I’m fortunate to share it with.

I think of the hopes and dreams

some accomplished,

some not.

I think of the pain and suffering,

                         striving and driving and

                         surviving and thriving.

I think of the strength of my words,

                                             of my legs, 

                                             of my life.

I am 36, I am satisfied but I am

not

done

yet.