I may or may not have found this poem
in more or less the same way I found you:
lying in grass, under bright stars,
meandering along rivers of conversation across
miles across minutes, vibrating
in harmony
alongside me, swelling in cadences,
bundled in creeds,
folded in sunsets, tucked in the peculiar
warmth of darkness,
calmly suspended like a streetlight,
crystallized
like snowflake on eyelash or a truth
discovered only in dreaming.

A birth is perhaps not such a miraculous thing
until
you hear the child scream and you swear
it’s a song the world’s been missing.

I did find something
in my heart this morning—it felt
like you (stubborn like
truth and fragile
like vellum) and it sounded like
a poem (measured&boundless), which,
as it turns out,
are not altogether different things.

Not all births are poems and not
all lives are songs
that sing me sweetly
to rest.

What I mean, really, is to say
happy birthday,
which really means something more like:

I found you and you
found me, and there’s no telling
which is the greater miracle.