“seventieth birthday, lost dreams, daily thoughts of you”

Seventy rings the clock, and yet I wake  
To morning light like petals after rain—  
I sip my tea, the world around me aches  
With memories that pulse both sweet and plain.  

You wander in my kitchen as I stir  
A gentle ghost in twilight’s silver hue.  
In every steaming cup, I find the blur  
Of all the future plans I made with you.  

Lost dreams gather quietly at dawn,  
Unwritten letters, songs we never sung;  
A garden path, unwalked, where hope had shone,  
Now tangled with the vines by years undone.  

Yet—daily, as the robin scolds the breeze,  
I tuck your laughter into folded days;  
Though dreams departed sail on stubborn seas,  
I keep you close in gentle, private ways.  

For age is just the sum of windows passed,  
Some open wide, some shuttered out of view;  
My seventieth dawns on truths that last:  
Behind each lost tomorrow lives your blue—  
The cherished tint of eyes I still look through.

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