An Old Brick

The eroding surface of an old brick,

Lies hidden under a carpet of moss,

And lichen, laying low where it is thick,

Remains, and it was never run across,

Along with matted leaves in the wetland,

And rotted trunks laying where the deer trot,

Observed by none, touched by no human hand,

Where not one voice has spoken in this spot.

The falling rocks drop soundly where they rest,

Among creatures left to their own caprice,

Happy with any comfort they possess,

Wealthy in riches, rich in nature’s peace,

Asking for no more from the universe,

Where gratitude need not be evident,

Although enough to fill an ample purse.

For what is greed if nature is content?