There was nothing
out of which loss could be made.
Not the smooth silver computer
present before him on his lap.
Not the coffee in a brown cup
on the couch's arm,
nor the effortless wind
from the silent world
outside his window.
Plus, he knew that thoughts
of kindness and contentment
were being born by the billions
across the earth
at this precise moment,
and the next,
and the next.
So what could create loss?
The silvery light outside?
The moments
unwrapping like presents?
