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,
still—
watching what was once plain plastic
now glimmer like stained glass—
as if the divine
had stopped by
for a shower.
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.