The morning of her birthday,
she sang the 13 songs of the Aurora Borealis,
her voice more subtle
than the 13 petals of the corn marigold,
more secret
than the 13th constellation of the Zodiac.
Still in her nightgown,
she danced the 13th waltz of spring,
her bare feet bathed in dew-wet grass.
The morning of her birthday,
the setting moon and the rising sun
paused in the sky,
and night and day held their breath
for 13 seconds,
long enough to hold back time
for just a little bit.
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