Wealth is not the coins you hold,
nor numbers on a glowing screen.
It is the soil beneath your feet,
the breath that fills your chest unseen.

Roots drink deep, unseen, unsaid,
they feed the branches overhead.
So too, your trust beneath the ground
becomes the fruits your hands have found.

Call it money, call it gift,
call it spirit’s subtle lift—
when you walk in faith, not lack,
abundance answers, circling back.

So plant your seeds in fertile earth,
water them with steady mirth.
The harvest waits, its law is sure:
you are already rich, secure.