Our hearts—your lacework trimmings;
tattered thread charms
make everyday worthwhile living.
According to you, we’re meant to exist
beside the hemlock ferns.
Because temporary tree-house nomads
like ourselves, for example,
are supposed to talk about absolute clever nonsense
when we eat apple pulps. Therefore, we reckon
forests thrive on our carbon dioxide.
You call me your daytime lantern—
the girl who never burns out after dark.
I take you as a compliment—
a boy with a tender poet’s remark.
I believe we share a wonderful amity.
Although, you don’t admit it.
We both suffer from a Peter-Pan-like syndrome.
Neither of us has agreed to grow up yet.
However, if you did, you’d certainly become a Walter Mitty.
It’s obvious to me, that you want more
out of your backyard lifestyle.
Suburbia isn’t a world we know in folklore.
I guess we have to mold our own myths.
Together, we break sticks and stones.
Our wind laughter chimes.
We carve woodland beauty; pretend to be beasts
And on behalf of the warbler, we’re
made to be embroidered.