Whenever I hear of someone
Shooting at a thief,
I am appalled.
Material is immaterial.
Only life matters.
I do not own
The things I own.
All things
Are but a loan.
The diamonds
That I fancied I possessed
Were merely visiting.
My grandmother's
Old-fashioned ring
Has again changed hands.
And the gold thimble
That my great-grandfather
Carried in his pocket
O'er the sea to America
Has embarked on another voyage.
What of it?
Nothing of value
Was taken
And I remain
Fabulously rich.
For I count:
All my fingers and all my toes,
My eyes, my ears--
And the storehouse of my mind
Is filled to bursting,
Not with rings and thimbles,
But with dazzling jewels of thought,
And fantasies amazingly wrought,
And memories of burnished gold.
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