Consider the lilies of the field

There is a park That I lay in. I check my shoes For spiders. I feel blades Of grass and weeds poke Through my blanket.

Last spring, every time I Visited, a flower of new glory Shone in a valley. First, a gang Of baby whites. I left footprints In their fluffed snowy clothing.

Next, wild purples vining Like snakes—one way, then another. Sporadic pops of violet waved Through a field. No worry For where they might go.

Then, reds shooting to the Sky, reaching, stretching Like children begging to be held. I will hold you, I whispered As i killed and plucked them.

Each of these wildflowers Were robed in greater fabrics Than kings. Silks, laces, jewels All forgotten to their glory. They never toiled or spun in agony To be clothed. They grew.

Today, alive like a song Orchestrated by the direction Of the wind. Tomorrow, dead On my dash. Are you not Much more valuable than they?

I sit in the park and I wish  To be like they. To grow today And not be anxious For tomorrow. Tomorrow Is sufficient at waiting for me.