This morning I could
go inside, boot up the computer,
pay my urologist’s bill,
then change the oil
in the lawn mower,
then drive to the dump
(now called the “Transfer Station”)
and listen to Travis,
who monitors the recycling bins,
complain about his life,
and then…

There’s a lot I could do
this morning,
but I think I’ll sit here
in the shade
watching the light
slant through the trees
throwing patches of sky
on the dark surface of the pond
and remembering
the poet who, after
a morning of wandering
through a meadow
said, she thought paying attention
to things like the strange beauty
of the grasshopper who landed
on her hand is kind of like praying,
and she asks what else
she should have done
that morning
Doesn’t everything die at last,
and too soon?

Yes, I think I’ll sit here
for a while and then maybe
take a walk and look
for a grasshopper.

(“The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver)