Born on the Third of July

I'm told I almost made it to the Fourth.
At night, though not last night, well past eleven,
and far away from Washington's true north,
both mom and baby fine, weighed in at seven.
But Fourth is when I choose to celebrate
the orbits that I've made around the sun,
although of late these do accelerate,
and turning over having just begun
appear to fade into a kind of haze.
The fireworks a colourful distraction.
Each New Year's and each Fourth. Those special days,
competing as they do to round the fraction,
until at last, they'll settle on the whole.
And someone will proclaim: yes, that was all.