On The Occasion Of My Sister's Birthday. Poem by john coldwell

The trees that blossom each year in the Spring
Mark the event with an annual ring.
And igneous rocks record their age by the layer,
Should we think they are troubled, or that they care?

Are they concerned at the onset of age?
At their brief moment upon this life’s stage?
Are they, like men, who at each fleeting day,
Fear memory loss and hair turning grey?

Do they note comings of age and key to the door?
Is there mid life crisis, and time to mature?
Do they, like us, sense their mortality,
The knowledge they face a certain finality?

I don’t know if they do, but I do know for sure,
That this Creation we have will not forever endure,
And for them the clock ticks and measures their day,
When the final inferno sweeps all things away.

Happy birthday to you, dear sister today,
Fear not, Child of God, do not dismay.
For the illusion of time is transient, like smoke,
And far more enduring are you than granite, or oak,
Our counting may tell us, its threescore and four,
But you know, as I do, you have life evermore.