checking empty pockets, overturning carpets
wondering where the world keeps all the jewels
and why i don’t have any.
weeks as a truant checking mirrors for answers
praying on mornings to change the nights.
visions in sleep of crystals unknowingly possessed
opening palms to discover shining treasures
round stones of forest green and pink,
the reality of dream.
the answers were there the whole time:
jewels are not hunted they are had and born inside,
and all along they were buried in these hands waiting to be seen.
to a morning without snooze buttons and an afternoon
as vigorous as the washing sea.
enter the discussion: