When you empty the wheelbarrow
of rain-wetted weeds in the spring,
when the seashells along the garden wall
inspire you to sing,
think then, old friend, of how we once were,
and how years have fallen at our feet.
When the world empties itself of me and you,
and our lifetimes dry up from their mornings of dew,
with the breath of the sun on the shimmering leaves,
remember then to say your prayers.
When the cat has his nap near the creaking porch-swing
and I’ve emptied the ‘barrow of earth in the spring,
I’ll think of you, fair weather friend,
and how there’s a measure of grace about you.
By day, a daydream ponderer who never gets his fill,
by night a barefoot wanderer who’s wandering still.
With my bamboo wind, rocks and rain,
what a lucky so-and-so I shall be.