Treehouse

Finding the right tree—
  not too young,
  not so old.
Finding one truly healthy—
  solid base,
  flexing limbs.
Finding the best type of tree—
  perhaps oak,
  beech, maple, ash.
Finding a fresh site to
Now and again escape to
Like in those fantasy books I’d read.

We have dreams of building a place,
In the crown of a broad hearty tree.
High above the digital race,
Peaceful and level our treehouse will be.

Building a stable platform—
  used two-by-fours,
  gathered nails.
Building up four solid walls,
  of weathered wood,
  painted dark green.
Building it with nothing new—
  found doors round an
  ol’ worker’s camp.
Building it sturdily to
Now and again escape to
Like in those fantasy books I’d read.

We have dreams of building a place,
In the crown of a broad hearty tree.
High above the digital race,
Peaceful and level our treehouse will be.

Hanging in our green treehouse—
  ground below,
  what a view.
Hanging round Mother Nature—
  passing deer,
  chirping birds.
Hanging out with my best friends—
  under moonlight,
  until day breaks in.
Hanging beyond time to
Now and again escape to
Like in those fantasy books I’d read.

We have dreams of building a place,
In the crown of a broad hearty tree.
High above the digital race,
Peaceful and level our treehouse will be.
Peaceful and level our treehouse will be.
Peaceful and level our treehouse will be.

Copyright @ 2015 by Mark Gustavson