endless hair pulling hours in the library, flipping through 

articles, and journals, and books. breaks 

with coffee stains and crying, slip 

away, back to a time when the fridge was your gallery 

and your family were its guests. 

a time lost in crayon colored meadows. where the only concern 

was to explore every hue in your pack of sixty-four.  

the sun rests in the corner, its smile bright and shining 

down with a glaze of golden rays. 

between dancing, your feet tip tapping though  

soft grasses and the occasional pebble you painted on blue 

you wander through the forest following a trail of words.

your only companion, your latest obsession stuffy. 

knit and crochet birds fly high in the sky while woven moss lurks 

at the base of  hundred-year-old trees. 

when the trail veers, you look to glitter glue labeled signs. 

decorated with little stars and hearts perhaps even a little scene. 

a river of polka dot fabric flows and you think “why not” before 

hopping on a little boat and riding on its stitching current before arriving

at a massive spotted garment lake. puffball fish swim across and around 

little sequin lily pads. you can't help but hop in and swim with them. 

when you're tired, you swim to the lakeside and lay on the beach. basking 

in the last of the warm sun rays, as they slowly mix with chalky 

pinks and greens and purples 

whitty 

    and whimsical 

                     and you. 

you are the work of art, untouchable and forever creative. 

living amongst the wonderous world in which you have constructed. 

no theory to distract, just the unadulterated curiosity and creation.