All I Ever Needed
“All I Ever Needed”
This morning,
I mistook the curtain for a field of diamonds.
Sunlight had slipped in—
quietly, without asking—
and scattered itself across
a thousand small water beads
left behind by the steam.
I stood there,
staring at this plastic thing
from the bath and shower aisle—
now shimmering
like the vault of heaven
had cracked open
right above the bathtub.
No fanfare.
No velvet ropes or museum plaques.
Just condensation and light
conspiring to remind me
that wealth has never really been
what I thought it was.
Not gold.
Not the corner office.
Not a car
that parks itself while you brag.
But this:
a temporary jeweled veil,
one breath away from vanishing,
still trying to tell me something
before it slides out of view.
That I am rich.
That I have always been.
That beauty, when it visits,
asks only that I notice.