Not Everything is Currency
They say success
mean numbers.
Columns of them
tidy, ascending,
obedient as soldiers.
But some mornings
a woman sits cross-legged
in the thin light before traffic,
counting only her breath.
Nothing increases.
Nothing can be sold.
Some afternoons
a page receives
the weight of a wound
and answers back
in language.
A canvas absorbs
restless color
blue arguing with red
until something inside the painter
goes quiet.
There is no receipt
for stillness.
No market value
for a steady pulse.
No ledger
for the moment a mind
chooses not to break.
They will continue
to total and rank,
to measure worth
in accumulation.
Meanwhile,
a poem holds a life together.
A brushstroke returns light
to a room that had forgotten it.
Not everything grows
in currency.
Some things grow
in silence.
Author: Sonali Narang
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