When I was young and poor,
when little was much,
when I was nimble and never tired,
and the hours of the day were deep and long,
where was the end that was already committed?
Where was the flesh that thinned and stiffened?
Nowhere, nowhere!
Just the gift of forgetfulness gracious and kind
while I ran up hills and drank the wind -
time out of mind.
Mary Oliver
image: Peter Bowers