Year Of Nineteen Seventy Six

Are you the one
who will run through the fields
to greet me on my birthday?
Lighting (the glow stick
in the nightclub sky
where God spins the decks)
turns against us and pierces
the core.

You are the one who told me it rained
on the day of my birth.
my first cries heralding
the end of the drought,
a raindrop hit the parched red clay,
awakened scorched grass.

I do not remember
the taste of that dust
Yet believe I must
have carried the heat
of the day on my breath
through my life.