A poem by my dear friend, Gale Warner (June 7, 1960-December 28, 1991)
Rise before the sun does.
Drink snowmelt. Eat oatmeal.
Observe the habits of lichens.
Watch clouds. Remember
the names of plants.
Walk, or work, enough
so that your rest has bones,
but not so much
that you are too tired at day's end
to ease next to your love, read poetry
aloud, wrestle, tickle, belly-laugh.
Stalk ptarmigan. Swim naked.
Take good care of your teeth.
Spend no money. Make
no pollution. Plan books,
but do not write them.
If you must speak with someone,
let it be about the weather, animals,
or prehistory, or the design of greenhouses.
Think about children. Go barefoot. Invent
political parties. Plot community.
Wash the dinner pot immediately.