For My Unknown Anniversary

Every year I knowingly cross the unknown 
date that will complete my tombstone,
the day last fires will turn ice and 
my deafness will make the silence 
my true and final friend- and I will cradle 
the earth that cuddles my mother.

Maybe I will share that anniversary
with her or some dear friend but 
undoubtedly with other millions passed.
The shadows know the date but are quiet
and are shameless in keeping it private.
Today there are poems to write and 
quiet and noisy, loud and silent times to 
live until the last song of my nightingale.