I was an early birthday present,
presented after the fog of the anaesthetic had fallen away,
tiny hands reaching for the only friend I had known, in the nine months I had been baking,
longing for the fond familiarity of a mother’s mighty embrace.
The blessed daughter of the vernal equinox,
to be born of your light was a blessing.
Today, no gift would ever be enough,
for all that you have given,
but I will try.