Tell me the price of morning
when the sun spills gold onto leaves
and asks nothing of the branches
but their quiet acceptance.
And what is the value of laughter
rising unexpected like sparrows
from fields where worry planted weeds
but joy bloomed, uninvited.
You could offer coins to rivers,
pay silver to wind, barter sunsets,
yet love remains untouched—
a wildflower opened
only by patience, by warmth,
never by the clink of copper,
never by the careful measure of giving
and getting back.
Love, it is said, moves unseen,
breathes without counting,
bestows its abundance quietly
in the language of trees,
in the whisper of grasses,
in the generous silence
of everything that simply is,
that seeks no exchange,
holds no debt,
wears no price.
Tell me, then, how to hold
what cannot be owned,
only freely offered,
only softly received—
like the air
like the sky
like the invisible blessing
that refuses all names
but one.
The Whispered Verse 