Tuesday, July 19, 2005

The Money Tree

curled its verdigris fingers
in towards spindly arms.

withered
in my full-bodied
embrace. brittle

unredeemable. paper
thin shoots press
into unseasonable snow.

an icy rain freezes.
hope, this pale
bastard child sent to burn

in the tropical sun,
returns brown and lovely.

NOTE: The eldest - sent to France and then Belgium with a 600 dollar budget - emails home about poverty...her own. There are days when I remind her that The Money Tree died a long time ago. These are also the days when I find myself juggling razor blades to sustain happiness.

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

I dont think ive ever made it to war with more than $400.

Alas! such youth is wasted on the young

--jeff!

Ania said...

The poverty turned out to be very real. I am down to no money- and that was just because I ate every day.

Sean said...

Well, the solution to that is obvious - eat only every OTHER day.

-- Sean