A Word-Gift for your Birthday Year

Concealed within the dark confines of a draw-string pouch,
A strange gift lies,
Velvet cushioned, loose and disconnected.

Within the leather draw-string,
Deftly concealed,
Is a chain of fine gold,
Unadorned.

To steal a glimpse of what yet lies hidden,
Is doomed for disappointment.
’Tis but a heap of shapeless stones, grey and lustreless.
Or so it seems.

Here, uncut, untended,
Rest the days of the Birthday Year.
They are gifted to you
To fashion, each within the space of a day.

Each offer an opportunity to create a day of joy,
Of harmony, and quiet delight.
Should shadows cross your path
With sorrows heavy-laden,
Then mourn awhile,
But take up Hope before the sun is set.

As day ends, thread your first dull stone
Upon the golden chain.
See what you have created.

A myriad colours mingling,
Rainbow lights refract from crafted facets,
Dance before your eyes.

A happy day,
With troubles quelled, and worries shared,
Of peace and quiet fun enjoyed.
All encapsulated and exquisitely portrayed
Upon this gem-stone of your crafting.

Days pass.
Wisdom grows.

Vibrant colours intensify,
Joyously.
Harsher tones now smoothly blend
As a caring touch brings understanding,
Compassion and love.

At year-end, a necklet rare,
May be worn with pride,
Graciously.

- Sylvia Roff-Marsh