For a happy birthday to you and to me and to Stephen Spender (2.28.1909), from The Rain in Portugal.

from 2128 / by Billy Collins

It’s the year when everyone is celebrating
the 200th birthday of Donald Hall,
but I don’t know what to do with myself.

No one ever thought to tell me
that he and I would live
beyond anyone’s expectations
and that the challenge would be
to figure out how to keep ourselves busy.

For you and for beloved Sabrina and Beatrice on the most wished-to-be-beloved of days, from Tsim Tsum.

from Where Babies Come From / by Sabrina Orah Mark

‘Where,’ asked Beatrice, ‘do babies come from?’ Walter B. was hanging a painting in the crawl space. It was a painting of the babies. ‘Basically,’ said Walter B., ‘babies come from rubbing babies together. They rub and they rub. Once, I heard them rubbing.’ ‘Are you sure those are the babies where babies come from?’ asked Beatrice. She was staring at the painting. It was a painting of the babies. ‘They seem,’ said Beatrice, ‘to be different babies. Walter B. tilted his head. A door slammed. They stood for a long time and examined the painting. Beatrice was right. These were not the same babies. These were different babies. Some of these babies carried twine….

For a misnomer of a love poem, from Poetry 180, edited by Billy Collins.

from Love Poem / by Peter Meinke

When I was a man sharp as a polished axe in the polleny
      orchard
I loved a woman whose perfume swayed in the air, turning
      the modest flowers scarlet and loose
till the jonquils opened their throats and cackled out loud