The Weight of a Coin

A seed is dropped, a digit shifts,

A simple trade, a sudden gift.

In theory, light—a shallow stream

Where logic meets the dreamer’s dream.

It is easy to see the way.

But soil is hard and markets cold,

And hours are traded, bought, and sold.

The climb is steep, the margin thin,

A weary race to merely win.

It is difficult to stay the course.

The gold is bright, the path is clear,

Yet paved with grit and taxed by fear;

A feather’s weight when it is won,

An anchor’s soul until it’s done.

The rain don't come, the seed don't grow.

Trade then fails, balance don't glow.

Grit to stay put, to keep strong

Success at last, what works for who.