I like the way Brits say
half-four,

that time between hours
to signal the midpoint,
a sense of partly accomplished
and hope for what is to come.

Today I am half-65,
halfway to my next birthday—
for many of my adult years
not a date I marked,

though as a child, I counted
half birthdays like pearls,
the string lengthening a wee bit
as I inched my way to the next
precious number.

I can still hear my grandmother—
Ah, your years are your wealth, darlin’—

and with each passing one
adding another pearl,
becoming evermore clear

just how rich I am.