if I've got time, yeah, I got a clock here, I want to finish just by reading a poem. This is This is spring poem, so more suitable for those in the in the northern hemisphere who might be listening to this on online. And this is from a from a very fine American poet called Ross gay who lives in Bloomington, Indiana and has fallen in a large community garden. And this This poem is called patience. And it's from Spring POM. Call it slough. Call it sleaze. Call it binary if you please. I'll call it patience. And call it joy. This my supine Congress with the newly launched yawning grass and beetles chittering in their offices beneath me as I nearly drifting to dream, admire the so called weed, which if I had guarded with teeth bared my garden of all alien breeds, if I was all knife and axe and made a life of hacking, would not have booths gorgeous fourth, and beckoning me sort of fell expires ring littered by these sorts of vaginal blooms, which the new bees being bees heed. And yes, it is spring, if you can't tell from the words my mind makes of the world, and everything makes me mildly or more hungry. The worm turning and the leaf mold, the Pear blossoms, howling forth the pungens like a choir of wet dream boys hiking up their skirts. Even the neighbor's cats shimmy through the grin in the fence, and the way this be before me, after whispering in my ear, dip dips her head into those dainty lips, not exactly like one entering a chapel, and friends, as if that wasn't enough, blooms forth with her hair, forehead dusted pink, like she has been licked, and so blessed by the kind of God to whom this poem is a prayer. And this collection of poems is called a catalogue of unabashed gratitude. And if we pay attention, if we quiet our minds, and pay attention to the world around us, then we will be filled, filled with gratitude for this earth, this planet of which we are apart. And perhaps our job as human beings, is to find ways to express this gratitude for this wonderful whose will stop here and recite the Four Vows.