To age is but to respect gravity,
movement that is denial given up
in the fashion of prayer: on ones knees
and thankful perhaps to finally pause.
Even the cockroach, large and hard-backed, slows
as if to attract the descending heel,
letting perpetual generation
care for itself in the shadowy corner.
The arthritic cypress has no age,
never having been young, its gnarled grip
sufficient, and its fall unwitnessed,
the swamp collecting all of its debts.
Trim my nails before I die.
My Maker would approve
of crossing ts and dotting is.
The details much I love.
My bank account make ready,
each decimal in its place.
I want my money exactly recorded
before I meet Him face to face.
My garden”especially the dill and cumin”
ensure its green and tall.
I want to point to my little Eden
when asked about the Fall.
Provide the priest with written sermon
detailing all the works Ive done.
I want my memory etched in memory
when all my praise is sung.
”Bruce W. Speck