At Thirty

At thirty one becomes oneself, a friend said

One lives more, he said, better, he shouted

I had my doubts, still have; I am of those

We see from where we stand, hill, valley,

forest or here, we see what we can what

we must. That’s what I thought from there

But life came, and love and sorrow came

And days as mornings, or grass or grey

Forgetting time through counting hours

I learned my arts and crafted my hands

I dreamed to bread, myself to words

And now I’m now and all the rest

The friend who says, the one who shouts

That thirty’s the day before you fly

(My birthday present to Naomi Berrill, who just turned thirty)