THE POET IN HER SIXTY FIFTH YEAR
I count my years. Like coins that I would spend.
And neither hoard nor waste. My drooping purse
like ageing flesh goes slowly bad to worse
Yet nothing seems quite ready for the end.
Most days are bright as stones. Wrapped in gold wire.
My glory friends dance round me. Word by word
they come to me so lush, sometimes absurd
this flood of language. Some day I will tire
but this was not that day. Spice, pizza, sun.
Protection racket hiss of urban geese.
Bustle of market. There's a sort of peace
that goes with crowds. I feel I've just begun
to love this world, this work. My heart won't break
to leave if I am bold, live wide awake.