She flipped over a cardboard box
so she could get closer to
that cookie jar
high on the shelf
that was always out of reach
The overturned milk crate
The little stool
The stack of phone books
Nothing got her close enough
But still she kept stretching
Her little fingers up
and here I stand
out on the balcony
in the cold
looking up at the white bowl of the moon
wishing I could have just
lifted her onto my shoulders
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