I wake up to birdsong
under duvets of fine cotton
Staring at the blue sky
In nightgowns of silk and chartreuse
Like in the books of royalty–
I pick up strawberries from untouched fields
My dress cupped under berries
To be spread as jam over bites of sweet toast
To feed to the nymphs and fairies
Like in the books of woodland fairies–
I hunt through old boughs and willows
Tristing through the briars as I run
To the secret place that the world doesn’t know
Of hollowed caves and forest clearings
Like in the books of adventure–
The trees whisper to me in secret
Dotting the floor with dappled sunlight
Sparkling with rays that flowers float on
Dancing with the windchimes
Like in the books of fantasy–
And I head back home in the dusty night air
Scratched by the thorns
To a quiet home of warmth and light
Living alone with no fairies fluttering beside me
But the books don’t write about that
