There is a me of I who’s deaf to no,
Who comprehends no can’t, who wrongs no right,
Who calls good morning to each new good night,
And grows more childish as in years I grow.
There is a me of I who times no tell—
Cracks earthy death jokes at a funeral,
Offers condolences when birthdays toll,
At Easter toasts the best year yet for all.

Climbing the axis as the seasons swing,
He ploughs and plants his seedlings every fall,
He sings and reaps his harvest every spring,
Then spends each summer swimming seas of snow; And when the I of me lies down to die
He’ll smile to gathered loved ones his hello.