Currency

I find a dime on the ground.
It's badly battered,
imperfectly round.
None of that matters to me.

I imagine the coin
is a gift.
Across the rift,
we're joined.

Thank you, I say,
feeling her presence -
hovering, pleasant.

I walk by a pool
where people make wishes,
tossing my ten cents in,
almost sensing her again,
sadly reflecting.

I am a fool in my way,
but the feeling is delicious.

So I go on, coin-collecting,
glimpsing her shining face,
an image that won't erase.