Few in a million make joy;

Truckers; teachers; or know why.

But some anywhere every day.

So tired I waded through air,

I walked to work somewhere.

I might never get there.

Walking is walking. We walk

Standing up, slow as we speak,

In a rhythm not to break.

Tired is of too much, touch,

Lift, decide, explain, watch.

Tired is being tired too much.

Air is not always underfoot.

Now green air sun-yellow-lit

Moved, and so much of it.

Slowly moved in that air slow,

At air's speed, sunned through,

Under that all-curving glow,

I had done with grue and cark,

Was aired, greened to the mark,

And got to my kind of work.