I skip barefoot across the pavement,
Ignoring your warnings.
“Watch for nails!” you cry.
But when the sunflowers are in bloom,
I am invincible, and the oak tree
keeps calling my name.
I dance in the space beneath its
boughs and tell stories of princesses
who never needed a prince.
Knitting tales of knights who ride
wolves rather than steads, I create
witches with secrets too beautiful to speak.
The butterfly wings drip with gold
and the grass still smells like morning,
but I do not count the hours as they pass;
For the taste of imagination is sweet
on my tongue and my eyes see truths
time will teach me not to trust.
But here, under the branches
of the oak tree, I know that dreams
are the stories we decide to believe.