My Perfect Life
My perfect life was not a pilgrimage
To some foreign shrine or holy land
Was not the wasted advantage
Of status stairs impotent with power
If I could right some wrongs
Along the way, and linger laughing
With the lavish throngs.
My perfect life
Was to be the joy of an eagle in the cloud
Certain that the earth would meet my need
From the basket of acres only bound
By rivers running like children around
And fragrance of a thousand trees
And the canvas of my frugal fields
And the choirs of a myriad bees
And your sweet presence before whom I kneel
And the aroma loving things
Wafting like smoke or incense
From the favor of a kitchen
And you the perfect gift above all gift
To hold my hand when twilight comes
And tell the children why
These acres were made my stairs
For each to climb
And follow me
To the big hammock in the sky.
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