A winning ticket
Could be worth
Seven wondering mouths agape;
Seven whistles of disbelief
Or one long ecstatic moan.
But even such incontinent
And wishful-thinking-weighted wealth
Could not buy me
A twenty-fifth hour, a second self,
An easy heart, a quiet mind,
A single cubic inch of open sky.
And when I smell the new-turned soil
And the forest after rain;
Eavesdrop on river’s chatter
And the whisperings of the sea
Watch the buzzard circling high above the dark-browed wood
Hear flute-notes ring like silver bells
Feel her soft hand enclosed in mine
And catch a certain smile
I don’t need a string of numbers
Spat out by some cold machine
To tell me I’m in luck.