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.
.








The only fond memories I have of my childhood, if you want to call them that,
are the times we sort of came together when we struggled. I grew up poor. It
didn’t stay that way but those early years were rough.
This is a fantastic poem.
Thanks so much Valuptas. Your comment is very affirming.🕊️🙏
You’re very welcome. I’m really enjoying what you’re laying down here.