every morning the world is created
under the orange bricks of the sun
and heaped ashes of the night turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches —
and the ponds appear like black cloth
on which are painted islands of summer lilies.
if it is your nature to be happy
you will swim away long the soft trails for hours
your imagination elsewhere
and if your spirit carries within it
a thorn that is heavier than lead —
if it's all you can do to keep on trudging —
there is still somewhere deep within you a beast
shouting that the earth is exactly what it wanted —
each pond with its blazing lilies is a prayer
heard and answered lavishly, every morning,
whether or not you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not you have ever dared to pray.