What, Me Worry?

Mary Oliver 

I Worried

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers 
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn 
as it was taught, and if not, how shall 
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven, 
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows 
can do it and I am, well, 
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it, 
am I going to get rheumatism, 
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing 
and gave it up. And took my old body 
and went out into the morning, 
and sang. 

Devotions

[Are you, like me, worrying far beyond what is necessary, or at least healthy? Maybe this poem tells us why people are going outside and singing to the helpers. Not a bad idea.]