Wanting for nothing, how shall I be dismayed?
Grieving for no thing, lost or unattained,
Why would I choke on the sharp bones of regret?
I am a guest in this house, thoughtful of my manners,
Mindful of my privileges, and so filled with gratitude
That when I pray, my prayers turn to praise,
upon my lips.
Were I to die, just as I am, surrounded so with beauty,
My soul returning to its source, opened wide
And revealing the map of my journey,
Would show forth, undiminished, beauty only,
only beauty.
And so, Beloved. I have written this poem for you.
