The Place of Play, in a faraway land.
An old treehouse with tattered wood that creaks.
Piles of pine cones, sticks, and leaves.
Shiny red bikes with bells.
Coffee-colored dirt under our fingernails.
And a wisp of fresh air that makes our eyelashes curl and our thoughts slow down.
Clothes getting stained, wet, torn.
But we don't care.
Laughter is our song today.
We are free.
We are light.
We are running.
Chasing pretend wolves through the forest.
Feet stomping, breath quickening.
We speak to mermaids, dogs, cats.
And that beautiful whirl of green keeps circling around us, never leaving our side.
Scrapes and scratches collecting on our knees, but we don't notice.
We are here.
Happy, Alive, and Well.
… Is this Place of Play really that faraway, or does it live within us?