# Price I do not know the price of stars, nor what the moon demands for light, nor what the wind asks when it comes knocking at the door. The birds sing free— I've never seen them haggle with the sky for space to fly. The sea gives generously, asks nothing back except perhaps to be remembered in the turning of tides, in the salt-thick breath of those who've loved it. But we— we price everything. We've learned to count what cannot be counted, to haggle over grace, to ask: *what's it worth?* before we let ourselves feel joy. Perhaps this is our poverty: not lacking coins, but forgetting how to receive a gift without weighing it, without calculating its return. The stars shine on, indifferent to our accounting. The moon rises without our permission. The wind keeps its counsel. And somewhere, a child laughs at something that costs nothing— still rich beyond measure.