On Your Birthday

I thought I’d gift you something today—
nothing fancy,
just a small, warm thing
that might make your life
a little brighter—
the way morning sunlight
slowly fills the earth
with quiet gold.

And if nothing else,
maybe a single rose,
a few words said softly—
like sunlight slipping in
on a cold morning,
slow, but close to the heart.

But I brought nothing—
no flowers, no chocolate,
only this poem,
born in the kitchen
as I stirred the evening meal.

It carries
a little sunlight,
a touch of moonlight,
a bit of friendship,
a whisper of love.
Some of my hopes,
my hesitations,
my heartbeats,
and a little fear—
all I want to pour
into your birthday.

Tonight, I write late,
just for you.
Thinking of you
feels like spring arriving—
a tree suddenly turning green,
branches heavy with fruit.
Maybe the wind
has spoken your name again.

You fall into the rhythm of my heart
like the moon
leaning down into a full, still lake.

I’m not rich,
nor as young or beautiful as you,
but when I think of you,
my words turn sweet—
and that sweetness,
tonight,
is all I have to give you—
in this poem.