Ballad of the Third Wish

The first wish is for money,
the second for love.
I'm not sure what the third wish is for,
but still I find it funny:

all week we wish for weekends;
in rain, we wish for sun;
for sex, if not getting any,
for more, if getting some;

but also are not willing,
if what we want to keep
is what we deem too dear to pay
in coin or loss of sleep.

Ease comes with getting older.
The body does not stay
what once it was when we were young
and mind becomes a way

to hold on fast to love,
to ponder and regret,
and learn to live with what is left,
in any case, to let

whatever happens happen
winter snow and springtime rain,
and let winds blow like life's own breath,
return to sleep again.

So what should be the third wish?
I hesitate to say.
Perhaps a sweet forgiving mind
cut free from all we've heard;

perhaps the peace we’re seeking;
to see that all we see
is marvelous, the only world
that's there for you and me;

and look up from up from our navels,
our private hurts and grief,
and choose the fights we’re fighting
when necessary, leave

a little room for living
a contemplative life;
to plant our plants and feed the birds
place books upon the shelf,

and say what we've been thinking
more quietly, and hone
our love each day, and put away,
while there is still some room,

some memories for others
when we are dead and gone,
the things we didn't think when young
or had no time to do;

and listen to more music
—or what for music serves—
and read more books, but mostly sit
and quietly observe.