49

The calendar flips with a rhythmic hum,
Counting the beats of a steady drum.
Next month the candles will gather in line
A flickering choir, forty and nine.

It’s a curious perch, this edge of a decade,
Where the sunlight is warm and the plans are well-made.
I’m not looking back at the miles in the dust,
But polishing gears that have never seen rust.

Forty-nine is a vintage, a seasoned design,
Like a well-plotted book or a barrel of wine.
I’ve got enough history to know who I am,
But enough of a spark to still give a damn.

The "Big Five-Zero" is waving its hand,
But forty-nine is the sweet, soaring land.
It’s the year of the "Yes," the season of "Why not?"
Tallying up every blessing I've got.

So bring on the morning, the mystery, the new,
The wild possibilities coming into view.
I’m ready for laughter, for leaps, and for more
Standing quite proudly at forty-nine’s door.