I like to know
the date everyone is born.
How many times they’ve been born.
How many lives
they’ve used between dawn and dusk.
A voice someone hears.
A letter found in a drawer.
A rose persisting in a garden.
A child’s face that belongs to them.
I like to pick up a book
and see no expiration date,
and believe
with all my being,
that no one I love has died.
No one I could love has died.
That everyone is an eternal
work in progress,
and life gets bigger
the younger it grows,
and one’s birth date is
the origin of the species.