I have friends, you see, who send me things.
Not coins or cash but treasures of more rarity,
Snippets of beauty in words, sounds, and sights,
Surprising my soul one sprig at a time.
Where do they come from
And why are they here?
I will never know
And to ask is impolite.
This magic of life, it’s answer running too quickly to catch
Finds home with a robin or a thrush,
Then sits gently on a honey bee’s wing.
Never mind the value
For it is the worth that counts.
Avoid the income or yield,
Capture only the moment
As your palm tries to hold it, but fails.
Accept my thanks as I glory in
The greatness of your gift.
As it grows in wealth and purpose,
I gather, one by one,
The collection of your creative soul.