In the barn loft, sometimes empty, my quiet place. I knew I could go, take my imagination, not repressed. Broken by slipping boards slivers of sunlight helped cast some bright as it streamed in pinpointing hay dust stirred up. Discarded plowshares became dragons on which I could take flight. Paper wasps were my soldiers I, their Queen, but, or rather growing up, I didnt want to leave those days behind, and didnt really, at least not in my mind.
Posted on: Mon, 29 Dec 2014 18:14:30 +0000