The Birthday Of The World

Marge Piercy 

On the birthday of the world 

I begin to contemplate 

what I have done and left 

undone, but this year 

not so much rebuilding

of my perennially damaged 

psyche, shoring up eroding 

friendships, digging out 

stumps of old resentments 

that refuse to rot on their own.

No, this year I want to call 

myself to task for what 

I have done and not done 

for peace. How much have 

I dared in opposition?

How much have I put 

on the line for freedom? 

For mine and others? 

As these freedoms are pared, 

sliced and diced, where

have I spoken out? Who 

have I tried to move? In 

this holy season, I stand 

self-convicted of sloth 

in a time when lies choke

the mind and rhetoric 

bends reason to slithering 

choking pythons. Here 

I stand before the gates 

opening, the fire dazzling

my eyes, and as I approach 

what judges me, I judge 

myself. Give me weapons 

of minute destruction. Let 

my words turn into sparks.