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,
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing
and gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
[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.]