Pride

I see a circle
in an old plywood deck.
Yes! I think,
and pull out my camera –
surely this will lead
to something good.
… and it does,
for me, at least,
and then I’m proud:
see what I have learned;
see what I can find of beauty
that others might pass by.


What is the point
Of this pride?
Where does it come from,
And where could it possibly go?
What is it in me,
(in us, dare I hope –
surely I am not alone
in this conceit?)
that so longs for the thrill
of accomplishment,
and recognition?