My father requested that I write a poem as his birthday gift this year.

Seventy three is but one more than seventy two.
We count the years as many, but for some they are few.

If you were a Red Wood tree, tall and lean,
you would be but a child, only beginning.

If you were a stone whose edges were made smooth,
your age would not be measured in years, but millennia.

If you were a galaxy, long arms gradually closing in,
the embrace of your center would require eternity.

But as a human, you are my father,
and I care not for these things.

Wisdom cannot be calculated nor can love be attributed to a clock, calendar, or the stars overhead. What I see when you turn from seventy two to three is one year more in which I have been blessed with a caring family.