As Far and as Close as Possible

(Birthday Eve)

Tomorrow I turn twenty-eight;

I almost wrote twenty-seven.

I’m looking out my window

between stacks of squares

that makes this town.

A clip of pale blue sky

reveals the canvas

which displayed

this afternoon’s storm,

and now, a new painting

of purple cotton balls

with pink-scalloped edges

stretch to each corner

only interrupted by a golden drop

melting off the last of today’s sun.

Years keep passing

like storms and sunsets,

some grey, some brilliant,

yet beyond the weather

and my sinking skin

is an unchanging backdrop

that is as far away

as it is near to me.

And I have to assume,

once I move behind

my last birthday

and the final sunset,

I will find that all along

the closest parts of me

have been the same

as the farthest parts of the sky.