Twenty-Five

I worried that

Twenty-five might come with questions,

in a loud interrogative voice

the usual racket of my heart's upstairs neighbor:

why don't you know just who you are,

and why you've been dropped just here?

Why haven't you done so very much more,

and helped everyone else to, too?

But I find that

Twenty-five comes to me quietly

with morning mugginess by the Delaware shore,

and seabirds skating high above

a quick call with my brother, across 13 hours difference

and the width of the Pacific.

I worried that

Twenty-five might arrive with accusation's weight

but

Twenty-five comes to me lightly

With only the unwrapped gift

and unfinished task

of presence.

Yes,

Twenty-five comes to me quietly

and sits in the dew-soaked chair beside

and we just exist at this point in time

with the trees

and the grass

and the bugs

and the birds.