Inflation

The coin that once bought bread and tea

Now barely clinks for half a loaf.

The price climbs like a climbing vine

that wraps around the roof and wall.

The shelf grows thin, the tag turns pale,

numbers swell like a rising tide

What fits in one small pocket once

now slips through both hands, open wide.

We count the cost of light and heat,

of fruit, of fuel, of daily need;

each morning we awake to find

The ladder moved, and the hill became steeper.

Not gold, not silver, not the note

can keep its weight from year to year

The only thing that does not rise

is what our money holds, right here.