Outside my door the heavens weep in constant cold sorrow. That sorrow is the only blanket for such a lost heart as the beleaguered soul in your poem and yet there is a song for that heart - the words of understanding and care that echo in this poem.

If desperation could reach for shreds of hope, it would grasp your words.

As trinkets, tinsel, and tempers erupt during this season, your words make us think of those stumbling through their trials.

True fortune rests not in the clenched fist, but in the open palm of hope.

Many thanks.