The Book of Weston

In the backyard,

safe inside the solid

wooden fence, the yellow

leaves and afternoon sun fall

on my back as I kneel, reaching

deep into warm sand, searching

for treasure. Of course I find it

because I expect to. A rust-colored penny,

then a newer one, a quarter, a gold dollar, two.

I fill my pockets and still there is more

because I know there is more, because

my young heart drives me on, beating

to the rhythm of more and more.

And when troubles come, I can feel

the coins rubbing against my heart,

so I keep my awareness there

on my buried treasure

as life leads me

further away.