when I was six and there will only be

one year in which to be six-with-a-zero.

How full that egg shape!
Not empty but spacious,
holding all that has been
and what is yet to be in this lifetime.

Driving home from the airport
I delight in the many ways
the year’s oval could be filled,
choices and desires mine alone.

From six-O, I direct my chariot
and look back on the girl in pinafore
who bridled her wishes to fit the rules,
raged like a mustang to kick her paddock down.

Supremely calm on this first day
of six-with-a-zero, I surrender to
what comes up in my globe-o,
my mother’s touch light on my shoulders,
grandmother’s strength in my heart.

Relaxed, (so unaccustomed),
hands on the steering wheel,
even without a map, confident,
cruising at my own speed.