From the child’s palm, cupped
A tree grows, fully
Sized only miniature.
From its branches, bloom
Lights, twinkling stars,
Instead of fatted cherries.
“Children shouldn’t have trees”, exclaimed
A mother, cheery pink painted lips,
Without money she sleeps within
A tree surgeons spread hips.
Once removed
The child refuses to speak,
Nothing to freely do
But dream.
