Yesterday was my birthday and one of the presents I unwrapped was this latest book of Billy Collins's poetry, Ballistics:
I like Billy Collins's poetry and I plan to share one here from time to time.
Here's a poem from this new collection that seems apropos:
New Year's Day
by Billy Collins
Everyone has two birthdays
according to the English essayist Charles Lamb,
the day you were born and New Year's Day—
a droll observation to mull over
as I wait for the tea water to boil in the kitchen
that is being transformed by the morning light
into one of those brilliant rooms of Matisse.
"No one ever regarded the First of January
with indifference," writes Lamb,
for unlike Groundhog Day or the feast of the
this one marks nothing but the passage of time,
I realized, as I lowered the tin diving bell
of tea leaves into a little body of roiling water.
I admit to regarding my own birthday
as the joyous anniversary of my existence
probably because I was, and remain
to this day in late December, an only child.
And as an only child—
a tea-sipping, toast-nibbling only child
in a colorful room this morning—
I would welcome an extra birthday,
one more opportunity to stop what we are doing
for a moment and reflect on my being here on earth.
And one more might be a small consolation
to us all for having to face a death-day, too,
an X in a square
on some kitchen calendar of the future,
the day when each of us is thrown off the train of time
by a burly, heartless conductor
as it roars through the months and years,
party hat, candles, confetti, and horoscopes
billowing up in the turbulent storm of its wake.