The Treehouse

Deeply incised grain in floorboards worn by time presses softly against my bare feet. Rough and smooth. Ridged. Walls are half air, half sill. Roof a jaunty hat of layered cedar. The central trunk climbs up and out a square of light spacious blue. I can stand and stretch and walk and talk here. There is room to have room. Room for silent thoughts to spring and sing forth. Room for looking at leaves and room to leave behind onlookers.

Table. Chairs. Books. Tea. Tea cupboards. Pencil. Sharpener. Broom. Pan. Soft chair. Cosy blanket.

Built for dreams and dreamers. A place to plan, yet once there, agendas dissolve into the productive hummm. Birds at the feeder. Fresh air flowing free thoughts in through open openings. Ease. Easy.

Embrace the tree at sunset. Giving thanks to the gifts that are on the way.

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