The Money Tree

A dozen bills
in my wallet
at the end of winter. 

Maybe now that
the sun’s shining harder
upon us, more
will grow— not on trees,
of course. I know
the proverbs too well
to expect such a thing.

I’d have
to change the world
with a violent shaking
to make that happen,
to bring us all
a true money tree.

Imagine coin buds unfolding
into tender notes, falling
into our open hands when they ripen.

Imagine plucking one or more
from an overhanging branch
as needed.

A dozen bills
in my wallet
at the end of winter.

Who speaks 
of money by bill count instead of
by total and denomination? I do,
today at least. Need to treat this
as if they are part of nature’s bounty
carefully chosen, lovingly
enumerated. To say:
I have a dozen bills today
saved all winter 
from the cold and snow.
They fold, they
take up space, are real. 
What they are worth
feels secondary

as I take them out,
clutch them in my hand,
then put them away
without looking at them.

It may be spring
but I don’t want to 
enter the pain of
the growing season
just yet. I don’t want to do
the work of abstraction
just yet.