tapioca desk

perhaps i'm making a daisy chain.

wild eyes dreaming wild things.

perhaps i'm helping a tiny creature.

the grass leans for my touch.

the dirt sings in my presence.

perhaps the spot loves me.

perhaps i am a floret.

a story filled with fantasy

it is our life

hands held high, reaching for eachother

reaching for the firmament

reaching for love

buttons fall to the grass

sugar rests soft on thy heart

smiles linger

your overalls are wet now,

the dew on the grass tempting the denim

to lick it up.

the cart wheels are sloppy,

perfectly imperfect.

overwhelmed with laughter.

raspberry cheeks,

scintillating eyes

bear the excitement.

but that's beside the point. i mean not really,

but i wish that you would follow me,

take a trip into my heart.

i'm sitting here in my little desk up in the barn attic. & today i have decided, that maybe it is time to let you in on a smidge of my secret life.

& that is this little desk.

number 1. nobody ever is up here,

unless the slivers of sun they see,

or the smell of dust attracts them.

& their ceroiusity wins.

number 2. if their ceroiusity wins, they most likely won't get up anyways. it takes strength. a lot of arm strength. because there are no stairs (they fell down) & then half the barn fell down. so u have to pull yourself up.

but let me whisper to you, the romantic unknown.

it's a hip roof barn.

the old wood arches high above me.

broken windows let the sun filter through.

many kittens play among straw bales.

the skin of some animal is messily nailed,

to the wall.

there's a mysterious pile of buckets & cans in the corner. & to the left of them a beautiful old table. finished with an old pitcher & an abundant supply of bird poop. there's lots of bunny cages, i like to imagine many bunnies. i've only ever had one.

on top of one of the bunny cages,

maybe 10 feet high..

is my desk.

the tapioca green is faded, covered in dried dust.

the surface lifts up, revealing my treasures.

it is dirty,

but you can tell where my wranglers,

slide into place. it fits me.

& from this tapioca green seat i can see my world.

my world of animals & dust.

my world of words.

many things happen here.

sometimes i let the creatures know i am watching.

sometimes they look at me. & run. or fly.

but then other times they continue to play.

unknowing of my smiling eyes.

when it is cold,

this antique green seat gets just a little,

to much.

my skin tingles & then i know it's time to go,

inside.

& then it whispers

with creaking wood

for me to come back

i nod my head

i understood.

it's eyes of broken glass

it's shoes,

of straw.

this will not pass

a love like this

for this old barn

it knows my heart.

it,

i will miss.