My birthday, always at the outset of NaPo, is, like all birthdays, a prompt all in its own that can't be ignored. (And I'm always surprised when googling poems on birthdays - how so very few of them there are...)
A Birthday Poem
A neon day
on the calendar
of white boxes,
waited for
with something like
hesitant glee:
another year older,
a celebration of me.
A day in which
the white space/blank page
prism prison
of ordinary days
and who you are
(or who you know yourself as)
is refracted
by others
into a rainbow spectrum
of coloured delights.
Suddenly
you're a kaleidoscopic wonder.
Glad to be here
and to be
counted.
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