Each time it comes around I search for words,
for what is just one day in every year,
that reveals itself in several iterations:
some bring celebration, some a tear;
some can bring together lasting friends
and then surprise you when you feel them sway
your otherwise unshaken disposition;
then some will come like any other day
and make you feel you sort of wish there would
be someone, who could make it otherwise;
bring you flowers, take you somewhere special,
for a picnic with some birds and butterflies.
Perhaps they will prepare a special meal,
the one you always relish, come what may;
command your sense of duty take a rest,
allow you to indulge yourself all day.
But, come the day, when someone says I love you
and brings a cup of tea for you in bed
and says this is your day, do as you will
doesn’t this mean just as much instead?
© 2013 John Anstie