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