What, me worry?

(Thank you to Harvey Kurtzman and Al Feldstein for the above title. If you recognize either of those names, or their Mad Magazine then you, like me, are old!)

I collect poetry. When I find a poem I like I add it to my collection. I go to that file from time to time and read those poems and along with the joy of reading poems I like, reading them reminds me of why I like poetry and why poets are interesting people. Sometimes I think I might write a poem that might make me think I’m an interesting person.

Here’s a poem I just found and that I added to my collection.

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.

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