That Day

However real the real might be—
Its flavor’s ever ordinary—Memory renders what has beenOddly wondrous and romantic,Matched sometimes by the actualAs on this morning by a snowstorm:It hazes up what’s long endured.
Some five point one-eight billion Babies, three of them your own, have comeDown to these shattered shores (to putThe thing statistically) since youWere born—came crying, flailing, inAwe, in celebration, we don’t Know—the Many of whom, for me, You are the One. Happy Birthday.