the west was won with pick axes and wails of ash-faced “EUREKA!”
the itch kicked up discovering still churns,
rolls in off the bay every morning at dawn and knocks
hard on my shadowed front door.
the rush to dig refuses to settle,
the promise of gold turns my head yet again.
i see it sparkle in my side eye but find only phantoms
when my leaded lashes lift,
re-focus on a ghost that’s up and gone.
this westward march must end at the sea,
but i will not drown digging pennies from pebbles.
there is treasure, better, in the slow-spreading smile of a secret whisper . .
i have found it!
treasure enough lies within, for now.