A moment of clarity,
a moment of blessèd vision,
and it seems to have meaning:
why there is this and that,
why there is nothing sure,
why so much of it all is random,
why so much of it all is worthless;
a moment seeing through
illusions of what is value
and valuable, a moment
wondering silently
about the garbage I've sloshed through,
about the things I've tossed away,
why, why, why, why, why;
for this understanding,
I would have given a finger,
I think, or a toe, but it was given
to me as always, freely,
like my life has been given me —
and I forget that, too, at times,
how much all that is worth
anything I paid nothing for.
A moment of clarity,
and it seems so ultimately clear,
and I think as a child
I understood this, or at least,
the gist of this vision:
even the things other people
have thrown away,
gather them I together,
and anything can be of value,
anything can be worth
a price beyond platinum,
if only I love what is there,
and I ask for nothing more.
