I came with hands full of the unseen,
A harvest of ink, a vision framed in light.
I laid my heart upon the table,
A gift of time, carved out of the quiet night.
But eyes trained only on the shimmer of coin
Cannot see the luster of the soul.
They felt the paper, but missed the pulse;
They saw the part, but ignored the whole.
I do not carry the weight of their rejection,
Nor does my spirit ache with a sense of loss.
Instead, I feel a hollow, heavy pity
For those who only know the value of the cost.
How poor is the man who looks at a poem
And sees only a page that is thin and bare.
How hungry the heart that starves in a garden
Because it cannot find a price tag there.
They have the gold, but they walk in shadows,
Locked in a ledger where the spirit is sold.
I am the one who leaves with the treasure;
They are the ones left with the poverty of gold.
©️ Deborah Seale Schnadelbach 2026
The Anchor Point 