I already pity myself for the woe that may arrive next season.
I should be filling the cellar, yet I grumble as if the shelves were already winter-bare. How will I survive until spring? I worry, and autumn has scarce begun.
Lord, let me be generous with what I already have. The winter will arrive and leave. I have lived through each previous one.
Tomorrow is illusion, Lord, let me live today.
(Letter #2,099)
