DB

It is,
dear friend,
your birthday.

For days,
and days,
and days,
I have pushed time,
hurried it along,
not listening as it rebelled,
tantrumed,
resisted being rushed.

I insisted,
wheedled,
cajoled.
Wanting the day
to be here.
When you with year older hands
will hold a cup of coffee.
And mine will be warmed
by tea.

It is,

dear friend,

your birthday.

And mere hours

from now.

We will sit together.

And laugh.

At the silliness,

of age,

and time.

We will make a stance,

grab hold of time,

now moving too quickly,

and pull it to a stop.

At least long enough

to sip coffee and

for tea to cool.

It is,

dear friend,

your birthday.

Holding time's collar,

ignoring struggle,

arguments

and complaints.

In the pause,

we will learn again,

why you who are coffee

and me who is tea

are friends.