What does fear do for me, that the hawk, soaring so far above my barns, her mournful call a hymn, that the lamb, calling for its mother, has not already done?

Tell me good friend, what would money bring me, that the sun, lighting up the mist in the meadow, has not already brought? What glowing mansion is there that I could find that would be as splendid a palace as my radiant  farm?

Whisper to me:  what would anger and pity bring me, that  pure love and an open heart, has not already brought?

What would fame do for me, that the trust of friends,  the bray of a faithful donkey, the eyes of a blind pony,  has not already done?

Am I not a lover of the light? A faithful walker of dogs? A hunter in search of images? A carrier of words?

Is there any miracle the world could bring me that is more humbling and wondrous than my lover has brought?

Have I not stood, just astonished, as the sparking of the stars right over my head, at the cricket’s lullaby, at the fireflies magic, at the mystical power of animals?

Have I not tried to see everything that could be seen? To feel everything that could be felt? To swallow my sorrows with my milk, every day of my life?

Have I once said that life is too hard, not worth living, too unsafe? That the cost of things is too much?  That it is awful to get old? Have I ever said the days are too long, the nights too dark? Have I ever asked for their coupons and made myself small?

What would sorrowing do for me, that the gift of life has not done, as I set out once again in the morning, to find my way?

And here is this astonishment for me: once I was fifteen years old and my body flowed like a stream.

And now I am sixty-five, and it is just the same. It is just the same. All these years to walk this road, around and around this endless circle, and to come around, to come home,  to me, clasping myself in the warmest and most beautiful embrace.

Then thank you, and please send me along, as I walk out my door, as I cross the road and walk into my wonderful life.