70

Seventy is only a number
greater than 69,
greater still
for all those numbers deep inside
from the beginning--
numbers of children
and friends,
loved ones
too numerous for counting,
and all those
countless blessings
that filled the seven days,
of weeks
lived strongly
yet generously,
with courage to greet each new day
expecting
and finding the morning aglow somehow
with something worth counting on,
something to number among the
things that count—
trees greening in each new leaf,
flowers opening in crimson petals,
dogs, cats,
and horses calling,
wild things too,
and birds homing to nest
building twig upon twig past counting,
in all those countless springs,
welling up from inside
those layers
and years of loving,
of being who you are,
indecipherable,
Lynn.