A Poem by Mary Oliver

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.