This is the place where treasures are kept:
In the depth, far from the sun,
Where the dust quickly sets;
The corner of my right hand pocket.

This is the gauge by which treasures are sized:
Squeezed between thumb and index
It does not buckle, nor bends, but pricks
Reassuringly as skin touches skin.

This is the food that treasures are fed:
Golden syrup sandwiches and mud
From where the sun melts the snow,
My apple scented breath, my kisses.

This is the color which treasures absorb:
The blue embracing the sky, the shade
That makes eyes shine, hide silvery fish;
It glows when polished on my jacket’s front.

This is my gift, my love, my flower bead.
I am old. I am four.