Although I do appreciate the value of gold, there are greater treasures to be had.
I look for them when I walk:
lost feathers propped against
blades of autumn grass,
acorns hidden within the shadows
where oak roots have burrowed
above the earth, October leaves,
blushing, golden, parchment
scribed with an age’s histories.
Once mine, I warm them in the wells
of pockets, hide them between
the pages of thick books,
but I often hold them, rest them
in my palm, feel there stories
of hunger and birth, grace and death.
Sometimes, I’ll gently fold a white tissue,
soft and warm, about an elm’s leaf,
a jay’s feather, gifting each treasure
to those I love so, perhaps, they’ll
better understand the magic to come
or the magic that was,
perhaps they’ll know I understood it first.