That wild piggy-bank full of all things metal,
covered in acrylic paint and posture;
the one that sat in my room as a child,
the one that I always shook with glee:
I don’t know where you got that one,
but I remember it like a dead friend;
still fond of and wanting to shake it again,
trying to gauge what was inside of it all that time.
trying to gauge what was inside of it all that time.
I sometimes miss that bank, terribly, in
trying times when I have to ask you for
money, but I know there’s a bank - one you have
fully stocked for many - whenever I need it myself:
And whenever I shake your heart,
there is no rattling, no part empty;
only a never-ending fullness of love,
for all things,
and I'm forever thankful.
and I'm forever thankful.