How foolish,
you tell me,
to extend myself
beyond this moment
of this day;
making myself a god
in foresight and will.
As if I might have
any idea whatsoever
of what the next moment might hold
or whatsoever
I might do about it.
So I am left with the birds
of the air and these
lilies of the field;
neither sowing nor reaping
or adding whatsoever
a day to my life.
And then singing the song
these birds are teaching me
each morning,
and putting on
the freedom and splendor
of the windswept field
with no worry whatsoever
but joy.