Today is my birthday (how thrilling!), so to celebrate I spent the morning raking hay (how thrilling, in an even more sacrastic manner). Anyways, this poem is one that I actually spent more than five minutes on. The last bits are still ragged, but I thought I'd put it up anyways.

 

 

 

Treehouse

 

This room, a room on stilts

A house built for me, now

Stands beneath tree, green

Light filters from branches

Through the Plexiglas of

Its sliding, dirty windows

 

Theses soft, grainy planks

Are suited to the whitening

Paint (upon the walls they

Make), they the connection

Of slanted ceiling and floors

Of pine.  My house of tree

 

Under a pair of cottonwoods,

The guardians of my dreams,

A house that became a home

For one. It holds nights when

I was alone, mornings when

I laughed, and afternoons of

 

Goodbyes. Now my pair of

Knights with their leaves in

The air above wave to me.

They invite and wave on my

Departure simultaneously.

My house, trapped between

 

Sky and ground: Leaf and root