I awoke singing “amen”

under my breath, as if commending

my body to the day ahead-

whatever may come.

When bones are coded for aches

and nerves programmed for struggle,

the gift of hope is time speeding by

with the sun overhead, pointing to glory.

It’s a dark place tapping its coordinates

upon skin and psyche

that won’t allow for missteps

or amusements. Rise above. Amen.

I’m not Irish but I can identify at least

seven shades of green

from my perch on the porch

(even the air is green, which makes 8).

Church bells clang a little off-key

some forgotten hymn for the town

as dogs breathe 57 scents a second

through car windows as they loll on by.

A few gently rolling hills just beyond

homes and highways encircle my view

so it feels like I’m in a spoon about to be

dipped in a bowl of grass and trees.

It’s quiet in the middle

of breaking apart

like maybe the tearing

mutes the sound of angst

but the flowers are striking

with their beauty and

nothing can make the green

less than what it is in summer.

Hours of searching

for treatments

and my hair is still

unmanageable

white and old,

my shape is still full

round and soft,

my eyes are heavy

swollen and dark;

my mind is a wandering

mass of curiosity

with no promise

to be kept by any maker

other than the one

that gave me this body

-what a funny god

who allows ruin to be as

inevitable as beauty is fleeting.