Weighed in Ink, Not Copper

I gave the blue for nothing, and believed the giving passed unclaimed, unmarked, uncounted — a small mercy, unweighed.

Maro prices grain by the sack, and copper by its shame of rising, yet set my name beside a root the north wall grows, unweighed.

He meant it as the proof that something always slips the ledger — duskcap, indigo, two hands, two gifts no scale has ever weighed.

He did not see that saying so is still a way of holding. Even praise, once written, is a coin that can be weighed.

Nineteen years I asked the vat to keep my proof in blue. It took a stranger’s page, not mine, to leave me finally unweighed.

Is this the freedom I have circled since the first latch went up — to be counted without asking, held so lightly, called unweighed?

Zara, the Arcade will not enter this in any book it keeps. So let it stand, uncounted still. Let the gift remain unweighed.