Twenty-three dawns: the crossroads lamps ascend,
each wick a star you sparked for your own name.
"Young wind," you said, "let's see how far we bend,"
and pages heaved to waves, and light to oar and flame.
You shipped with solitude, your first sworn mate;
set iron-heart to mountain-titled stone,
and with one pen engraved the break of late
cold mornings, trading bitter brew for tone.
When only draft-papered breaths remained,
you wrote hope clear. Then tidings split the night—
doors swung, roads lit, your clarion day unstained,
the first rain-clarified pane of 2025's light.
I watched you start; lone feet found company,
and silences turned shoulders, laugh, and plea.

I saw you lift your gaze above the crowd:
no longer only night, but ember's speech.
At twenty-three, a knife new-honed and proud—
so light, so bright, it seeks its waiting beech.
Fear not the unknown; maps just fold in two
to slow your hands that hunger to unfold.
There will be forks, and rain, and quiet blue,
stillness that speaks by saying it is old.
You've learned to lamp the dark, to roof the rain;
let falls turn marrow-tough—unheard, yet strong.
Bank every small delight like travel-stain,
a postmark for the road that runs so long.
When clamor swells, hear still your harbored art;
on heights keep warmth, in lows keep sovereign heart.

Let learning grow a wood; choose one bright seam
of sky between its boughs to be your view.
Let work light up the panes until you seem
to meet yourself in glass and smile through.
Joy will arrive like evening's punctual fire;
splendor will follow dawn's unfurling blue.
As for the lonely—stones along the gyre:
they press the foot to prove the path is true.
If you should walk into a brighter day,
I'll stand beside its edge, your quiet twin;
turn back, and through the festival's warm spray
you'll see my lifted hand beneath the din.
Happy your birthday—take the world as gift,
and be its gift; together let us lift
the next long mile, write time, and be each other's gloss and drift.