Word rich, cash poor: some kind of way to live,
don’t want that mental load weighing me down;
to feel I have a world of wealth to give,
yet possess little I might call my own.
A whisper in the heart blooms on the lips
and greets the air in unforced exhalation,
inspires the hand to flex the fingertips
in Hallelujah Chorus exultation.
There is no freedom more than this: creation
— all other occupations dull the sense —
do not be limited in expectation,
words’ worth affords abundant recompense.
For all the world’s gold, I’d not change these words:
Let fly! Join morning chorus with the birds.
Just riffing on Wordsworth and thinking about different kinds of wealth this Sunday morning…