Yours is the mystery of wind in the trees
You are at one with the birds and the bees
You welcome new friends and your mind is such,
That you love them all--but not too much.
Yours are the daises that grow in the grass.
The golden buttercups nod as you pass.
The butterflies rise and it seems to you
A perplexing thing for them to do.
But the present so soon becomes the past
And you find little trials do not last,
For life goes on, and you see in your view
So many things you would love to do.
Little black puppy, we learn from your life,
The futility of fretting and strife,
And pray to be given the grace sublime
To live in this world one day at a time.