7

Birthday

We each have reached this plateau by a stair

that was, much land-slid now; yet he that winds

his trail-rope backwards finds no footrest there

as witness; memory fails him; looking blinds.

Thus birth recurs forever. The mystery’s

that the self’s one being can still last

each vanished trace, while urgent future cries

some new direction, restless without past.

Today is always. Always here the climb

began, proceeds, will end; the hope to hold

off destiny by sense of piecemeal time

lies. Then mount this day large, manifold.