They tell us all to climb the tree,
To reach what hangs for all to see.
But though we stretch and though we try,
The fruit remains too far, too high.

A fox will feast, a lion dine,
While sparrows peck at crumbs and pine.
The branches bend for weight and pride,
But never lean to those outside.

We’re told, “Grow strong, and you may rise—
The climb is fair, the prize the prize.”
Yet roo...

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Beneath the aching winter’s shroud,

A child walked mute through the bustling crowd.

Her feet, bare whispers on the frozen stone,

Her ribs a harp of hunger’s tone.

She carried a box, her treasure, her thread

Of tiny star-sticks, sulfur-fed.

She called to the rich, the hurried, the gray,

“Buy one, kind sir, and light your way.”

But no one paused, no coin was tossed,

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