My Realtor | The Nation

At the border between the past and the future
No sign on a post warns that your passport
Won't let you return to your native land
As a citizen, just as a tourist

After a hard rain, a sudden clearing.
Puddles shine on the gravel path

Winding down to the meadow where smoky wisps

Rise from the warm ground, low earth clouds

That thin and vanish; and now

The birds start up again, and the crickets.

What if a happy life is only a long succession

Of happy moments; if they come unbidden

And the virtue that serves us best is simple readiness,

Mere openness to the occasion, if the sycamore

Swaying whenever the wind moves by

Serves as our great exemplar, sage, and prophet?

I hope not. I hope the efforts I've made

To claim my life as my own and give it meaning

Lead in the end to a happiness more alive

And lasting than any that fortune offers

Whenever she pleases, the random bounty

Impossible to anticipate or encourage.

My efforts, my patching of roofs and windows,

The writing of invitations, the widening of my guest list,

The mastery of guitar chords, the library work

On the history of landscape in water color and oils,

What exactly they add to the world of hills and valleys

That the hills and valleys should be grateful for.

And then this hard rain and sudden clearing,

This low sun, these rosy clouds that I interpret

As proof I'm included in the lucky flow of gifts

Circling the earth, offering me a welcome

Hard to resist, without conditions or reservations,

With nothing expected of me, nothing to be earned.