wordsmith, imagesmith, spiritsmith     


Often have I trod this trail to catch dying, dusky light,
but this spring morn hoping beckons me here at dawn
to axe-free a patch of shade and open me to shining.
But on my way a penny prays for rescue from prison of log and leaf,
without care dropped, or cast away with ire
neither pocket nor purse less laden for its loss,
nor missed from among its heap of twins.
Yet this aged copper trifle, traded from hand-to-hand,
hunger may have salved with gifts mundane of apple, bread, milk,
or proffered joy with winsome book of wondrous fairy tale.
Beneath tarnish hides worth forgotten, still yearning to shine,
so now it guides me homeward, with hoping renewed.
Nor brass nor bronze but copper-pure too am I, you see,
Penny-poor in virtue hidden but penny-rich, rich in shinings yet to be.