Not the label sewn on the inside,
but the hands that passed it down—
Not the boots that walked first,
but how far they let you roam.
We measured riches
in treehouse kingdoms,
in second helpings,
in stories from a worn-out hat.
How far from poverty?
Far enough to remember.
Close enough to understand.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 31st, 2025 05:11
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
There is soul in this poem, not the flare and flash of sequined ball gowns but the time worn wrinkled hands of one that has lived it all and knows the worth of what holds value. A warm tenderness of understanding and the home felt handshake of belonging and feeling welcome to all the world poor as it is. A feeling of giving and gracious receiving. It is the soul that gives value to this poem. Lovely
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