I want to do the work of bees,
or grass growing in the field
even winter’s hungry wolverine
Labors of passion, because they are:
No choice but to be
givers, not takers
Heirs to the earth
When the sun crosses my face
each day, I shall not think
I don’t want to make honey, grow, be.
There is only this as far as I know.
It must be more than dreaming, and
soon, nature’s fuel will find me
right where it left off forty years ago.