This Morning
The dust motes drift languidly Like they have nowhere to be. A diagonal shape crawls across the wall, Intangible, abstract, living art. So I cup my hands and capture a handful Gold glows and splashes red and yellow. This fountain of wonder spills endlessly, A treasure beyond comprehension. All the while the melody of her voice Bubbles easily about nothing & everything. Moments common to all men, Mine, framed by loyalty and faithfulness. And it dawns on me how my wealth Outshines even that of Solomon.