on waking up sixty

the warmth from flannel sheets
the silent clock, its numbers
are blurred red eyes.

I settle into the embryo
of swirling thoughts.
today is yesterday.
a year alters little.

when my son asks
I have no answer.
to describe sixty is to describe fifty-nine.
I could tell him

I now use words like relish and savor.
or pause to absorb
a robin’s nest in the pear tree out back,
a blue-colored egg
the sole occupant.

I could tell him this.
and the wonder
I have for the fragility of its shell.