How Kind the River

Ever since my youth I’ve known of a stream. I reached into its depths, and it delivered pretty things. “I would so like to ballet,” said I to Mother one fine day. Mother’s fingers swirled the surface, and I barely heard her say, “All that is gold does not glitter/The nut in the bough of the tree/But if this is what you wish for/Surely the river will give to thee.” ‘Twas not a fortnight later, when I was home from school, that I found a pair of slippers and a kit of ballet tools. I rushed to t...