The day before a birthday
nothing needs to happen.
The bread is already rising.
The table already knows
how many chairs.
Someone will arrive tomorrow
one year older than they were
and sit in light they didn't earn
and eat what someone else prepared
and this is called a life.
Tonight the house is just a house.
The candles wait in drawers.
The cake hasn't been named yet.
This is the holiest hour —
after the preparation,
before the celebration,
when the gift is still
the intention to give it.
When the verb is still
a held breath.
When twenty-four
hasn't yet become
twenty-five
and the distance between them
is one ordinary evening
where nothing needs to happen
and nothing does
and it is enough.