to worry is wasted, I confess I am not immune,
worry of empty board deceives me so: I see through empty cupboards
and night without anything but the bellow of my empty belly.
I see a clear view through  leaded ornamental sacred windows,
see nothing but a pulse, a beating. I hear a beat once muted.
My graciousness bows down.
I hide as does the hungry dog until the quarry is near.
I will spring one day, alight,
into my meadow and seize the cow udder and nurse my being from
vast ****** fields I feed, of words paving my path into,
where I will stand and see me now. As weak and low. See from my arising into what I dream, me, in pity as I was.
To this mount I climb, up around all obstacles. Into the meadow alone.
One great Oak standing, his limbs reaching up.