how measureless; how beautiful

while rarely does it matter how a thing of beauty comes to be so long it serves ''common good'' or fills the purse of need, still (greeting me and an Indian sun (greeting this late September dawn (greeting a miracle unseen before) three morning glories near our door; each stemming from a strand of green each and leaving my heart pondering ''the common good'' and gold. for though these fed but one small bee while growing me this poem, when weighed against a measured sum how measureless; how beautiful and oh the difference to our world; and oh their value now to me.