I used to believe in
God and Country,
or thin or rich or saintly.
Even this Los Angeles zealot
Had to learn that these are unsustainable
In ones eighth decade.
Deep in my soul I believed that those
who didn’t remember history
were bound to repeat it
Now I know they repeat it anyway.
I was a fanatic in the cult of unconditional love
Now they call that co-dependency.
Maybe there are no universal truths.
Just genes, clichés, timing, geography, luck
And the need to believe.
I believe in the need to believe.
I am a priestess
in the cult of hope.
Dare I trust this transition
into my 80th Birthday.
This final stage of an energetic life,
That feels hopeful and right.
Finally I get it:
I must find my sanity zones in a world
of too many choices, causes, and people to love.
I will take my time so that I am aware of its gift.
Maybe I’ll even learn
not to be motivated by guilt
Surely there is a higher calling
for taking the high road.
“What is she?” you ask, “a slow learner poet?”
“Maybe, but dear Goddess I have so few questions left.
Perhaps you will answer this one:
“Why do we each have to learn everything for ourselves
in our own time?
Tell me that the essence of my Hope
is not a mood swing.”
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