Song at Seventy

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I’ve poems to write or polish And daily tasks to tackle. I don’t devote a lot Of bandwidth to the thought That time may soon demolish My earthly tabernacle.

I’ve given some fears lodging: What if Earth’s glaciers melt? Will demagogues undo Our polis? Can the New Horizons probe keep dodging Rocks in the Kuiper Belt?

But death seems merely strange And tragic. It’s what’s not. I have a hard time seeing Myself as an ex-being. Matter and mind and change Are all I’ve known and got.

So I plug onward, aiming To make a friend or sonnet, Desiring an alliance Of justice, peace, and science, Hoping my death’s not shaming But not much dwelling on it.