I cannot say as much as a blue butterfly,
I do not speak Nymphalidae,
and I cannot transform these few words
into a silver-washed fritillary.
But on this your 50th year,
I’d still kill to cocoon with you,
still thrill when enwrapped by you.
Happy that our love still finds leaf-shade
in the heat of the day,
finds a shawl and enswathes,
on those colder days.
Happy that your wings are still unfurling.
Happy you’ve picked me as flying companion.
Happy our migratory patterns still entwining
our road still unrolling.
We’ve worried the shape of passing clouds, have been glad of many horizons; and on night-time beaches and through lancet windows, our eyes have searched night stars and day moons—and still we dream—even as our dreams have long been answered in each other.