Turning 56-  cancel

 
So many years commemorated with cake.
Candles like a wish formed, reforming,  
unbidden in the dark before this much light.  
  
I am dying to know whether some plan    
predates my path to this celebration.  
Or is my next, and every, step uncharted?  
   
   
Cruising along, the air is still and stifling.  
Signposts and landmarks liquefy  
above a March-in-Texas wet roadway.  
   
   
I’m reminded that "D'où Venons Nous /    
Que Sommes Nous / Où Allons Nous" hangs    
on a museum wall in Boston. The artist    
   
   
sought answers but settled for arsenic.  
Are there any living truths buried in numbers?—  
56 Holes of Aubrey, 56 Minor Arcana, 56 layers    
   
   
in Aristotle's Universe. Some mathematicians    
would still make sock-puppets of philosophy.  
So many algorithmic angels dancing on my dura.  
   
   
Perhaps I am descended from Cimmerians.     Which explains why wisdom watches wordlessly.
from the wings, not thinking to join me on stage.