Years

Years are like boxes. They hold things. But some things don't always fit neatly inside.
They spill out, overflow. Some boxes are nearly empty.
Years are like doors - no, that's not really true.
Years are like long lists of things to do.
No, years are cars on that distant road,
things that go by quickly as you're paying attention to something else.
Years are heavy sometimes. They have weight.
And yet they're so light that you don't tend to notice.
Years are grains of sand. Years are like air.
The truth is that years are like the absence of light,
the mechanics of mirrors, or why birds have flight -
they're things that I don't understand and maybe never will.
But I'm okay with that. I'm okay.
Forget about years. I'll just worry about today.

____

Happy Birthday to me. Twenty five years. Twenty five boxes. And hopefully oh so many more to fill.