It feels like my birthday

when I’m with you

under all the blue–

the sky between leaves,

the safety of your jean jacket.

This writing date is one

I’ve always dreamed of subconsciously.

You have a way of meeting my unspoken needs,

to write, to create,

to see the tide come in

and the moon rise slowly,

sometimes surprising us.

Like that time it was bright orange,

lower in the sky than usual.

Nothing here is unusual,

and yet it feels like a fantasy.

Crickets and birds sing.

We lay in picnic style,

on your white blanket,

pens in hand.

We are manifesting our stories

as we write them down.

If I could choose

a birthday it

would be a day

just like this–

cool enough for a hoodie

and warm enough

to be writing

with my love in the park

by the light of the sky above.