Two times my Jesus year
is two-thirds a devil year—66
and month 6 for that unholy trinity,
though I have crested the peak
and I am sliding on over to yet another year
that at 33 I could never have imagined,
but here I am combatting all the same
deadlies now as then—envy, gluttony,
an occasional foray into pride. My sins
are those of too much, not too little.
Proactive sins. Not sloth,
though I stretch out my legs
on this porch swing, coffee at hand,
contemplating the best of the days,
the labor and sorrow,
how they fly,
as the psalmist said.
A tale that is told.
I am aiming myself toward gratitude
for all the ways this aging body
carries me through
the length of my days.