Unbirthday at Sunrise

This poem is a strange, sweet, and surreal tribute to my father, who was a farmer—not just in profession but in spirit.

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This morning I planted spoons instead of seeds,

because the soil told me it was an unbirthday and nonsense was required by law,

and I am nothing if not obedient to the whims of wild dirt and shy worms with poetry in their bellies.

There was a teacup waiting for me by the scarecrow’s left boot,

grinning like it knew the real reason stars twinkle,

and when I drank from it, I remembered your voice

not as sound, but as steam that curls into the shape of laughter

too soft to bottle, too strong to forget.

The candle flickered in broad daylight and whispered hooray into the breeze,

and the turnips applauded in dusty rhythm,

for they understood, as I did,

that today was not for mourning what wasn’t,

but for smiling into what absolutely couldn’t be but still felt true.

The cows wore hats, the radishes sang jazz,

and I found your name carved into the bark of a pumpkin

I hadn’t planted, yet somehow grew,

so I left my boots at the fence post and danced with the sun,

because some things bloom when no one is looking,

especially love that doesn’t ask to be believed.

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