Greed Poem by Bill Grace

I do not think greed a natural thing
Though it makes the heart of many sing
And the blood of almost all runs faster
At finding a good deal.

But the thing that greed tries to fill
Is - despite the object's possession - oft with us still,
For years can carry wounds
That years alone will never heal.

There is a middle way
That requites us from the bitter climb
Upholds a vision of things sublime
Poetry and prayer and friedship's deep currents
The meaning of being whole
Perhaps even the intimation of a soul.