Poetry Sunday: I Worried

Here's one for all the worriers of the world, among whom I count myself. We are the ones who always fear the worst and are first to blame themselves when things go wrong. Maybe in 2016 we could all just stop worrying and, like the poet, take our old bodies out in the morning and sing. 

I Worried

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.