Michaela is 44 today. Swinging into a new year.
She is enough to turn a grown man to poetry.
They can have your smile
The curl of you that calls out their song
And they can have your hand to hold tenderly
When the trees bend low under the weight of the sky
Your heart is a hospital
So even there they can find for themselves a soft place
Pulsing with the life of you
But under your hair
In the fragrant fold of a lobe
In the toss and tickle at the nape of your neck
Is a place all mine