The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean –
The one who had flung herself out of the grass,
The one who is eating sugar from my hand,
Who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down –
Who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what prayer it is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
Into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
How to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
Which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your and precious life?