Leap Year

I was born in 1963.
My 1963.
No words in newspapers
singled out this event or that
as important.
No mouths on tv screens
spoke words that said
pay attention to this;
don't look at that.
No men or women
appeared in movies
wearing those kinds of clothes
and that kind of hair.
No books were written
on how things were to be arranged
or rearranged.
No voices on telephones
said Isn't it awful
and Aren't we lucky.
There was no one with a
microphone to say
We are living in historic times.

This was my 1963.
All was still and
all was in flux.
Dark became light
and God was resurrected
for the billionth time.

This 1963 stood up
and hollered like an ape.
This 1963 swallowed rivers
and hopped over mountain tops.
This 1963 ate lions' hearts
and grew a fiery tail.
This 1963 went for sky-rides
on shirt-tails of angels.
This 1963 buried itself like a bone
and talked to earthworms.
This 1963 was a splendid temple
with floor-to-ceiling carpet
and all it's jeweled doors
flung wide open.

David W. Aronson
December 2000