At sixty, I see their judgments
For the righteous translation
Of fear that they always were
And evermore shall be,
World without end,
While my God sends the new leaves
Coursing through branches in Spring,
Sends the shrill call of tiny birds
In the nests of house wrens,
Laughs at the shape of the moon,
Speaks in the raucous call of crows,
Your sanctimony smells of unwashed dishes
Left too long in moldy water–
Your judgments no long touch me;
I am whole in my long age,
Free in mind, which I don’t,
And all my ill will lies in shreds
At your long-toed, ankle-socked feet.
Leave me to my doom, please,
For it is long and sweet and full of love.
I pulse and spin and sing every song forever.