Bowed planks,
soft from the change of seasons,
sag in the cleft of the tree.
They are forgotten scraps,
gathered
and assembled
with a child’s sense of
infinite possibility.
Tenderly,
she calls
this rough space,
home.
The first and only
house
of its kind
on this street
holds no architect’s prize.
But for the girl
who dreams?
It’s a haven
nestled in cordate leaves,
the chirrup
of rubbing branches,
the downy throw
of cotton seeds gaily
spilled at her feet each June.
Poem by Judith Zelis
Judith Zelis is a long time child of the natural world, who finds increasing solace in its wonder.