It is springtime when the girl returns
time and time again to the tree,
The one in front of the periwinkle house.
One might look at it and think
that it is old and it is dead,
that it is just a stick with leaves.
And that the swing on it
is tattered and decrepit
With its dirty, rough rope.
But to her the tree is beautiful,
straight out of a fairytale with its
waved branches fanning out like petals.
The moss growing on its earthy coat
is luscious and vermillion, and its wood
is intricate and marbled and ingrained.
The textured braid swaying from a branch
attaches to a stained red cushion,
allowing her to soar and stroke the heavens.
The leaves filter sunlight to the earth,
Creating rays of saffron and emerald
that intertwine in beams as they illuminate the earth.
The girl’s caramel locks and amber eyes
are set alight with jubilance, with energy
as she relishes in the evanescence of childhood
Until she too is part of the fleeting fairytale-
the princess and her majestic, magical tree
forever in the warmth of the golden afternoon.
