The Poetry Tree On a midsummer morning, Or was it afternoon? I spied a gossamer mermaid, Floating on a gold lagoon. She told me she was Sea Star, She'd take me to the witch. The one who brewed the books I read, From "Wicked" to "Oliver Twist". I swam into the silky gold, And waded to a shack. A little girl answered to my knock, And my heart nearly had an attack. "I'm looking for the Witch, my dear." I say, quaint and polite. "You've found her silly!" says the girl, I laugh; that can't be right! "No other has imagination, Quite like younger folk. So until my duties are fufilled, I'm no chicken; i'm a yolk!" She takes my hand with tiny fist, And shows me, ceilings tall. A cauldron (pink, what a suprise), And vials line the walls. There's vats of goo, labled as such; "Fiction" "Nonfiction" and "Other" Theres sprays of drama, salts of sad, Each one not like another. I don't let myself get distracted, By the puffs of laughs, made into tar. I summon up the couruge and ask Where all the #poems are. She smiles, rather knowingly, The face of an old soul. This smile tells me she can't provide, What I need to know to know. "my child, poetry can't be made, From potion, not even by me. It comes from you, and in your mind, You have a Poetry Tree." #household