Once upon a South Street time in a whimsy close to me
I scraped my knobby knees climbing up my favorite tree.
It’s a old worn out location that my imagination goes each time
I worry or I wander or I need to ease my weary mind.
My inner child conjures up those days just like a prayer:
Dropping helicopter seeds, naked toes kicking the air
Peeling from course black bark cicada’s molt of gold
Watching over cornfields shimmering with a summer glow.
Little me didn’t know the world beyond what she could see
Instead all she knew to be true was the cradle of that tree.
So when I get lost in it — that world that sighs and grieves–
I go back to what feels safe and sure: roots and bark and leaves.
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