I want a house on a hill with gardens and benches neatly landscaped with twinkle light trees and green-blue fairy glow orbs. I want swings in the tall whispery grass and a shushing pond with construction site orange fish. I want a hand holding nook and a climb-to-the-top-and-kiss-in-the-twilight tree, but most of all I want a little brown-stick-in-the-mud path meant just for me. And down my winding squishy-scooshy path I’ll twirl but not until the moon claims her elegance and the stars unfurl. Then down through the twinkle trees and the whisper grass and past the curling swirling sleeping flowers and underneath the kissing tree I’ll traipse down my little path until I’m lost in a greater reverie. I’ll run through the criss-cross branches and pick berries off a blushing bush and I’ll stuff myself so full of ink stain fruit that I’ll curl up under a hollow tree and tell stories to the wise old owl who lives on top. And when he’s heard so many that the holes in his ears are bound to pop then I’ll crawl back out in the deep black sky and serenade the stars as the wind passes by. I’ll howl to the wolves and I’ll walk like a bear and chase a mountain lion round it’s lair. And when I’m tired and my limbs ache with life I’ll blow goodnight kisses to the bright firefly that guided me home down my little mud path and up through the garden till the sun kisses the top of my house on a hill.
(c) Lauren Otheim – 2009