"in my own little bed..."

when I was young the world was small
and my dreams were holdable
a featherbed with soft white sheets and a stack of books,
a lamp that I could turn on anytime I wished
and a nest of pillows to snuggle down in, on a rainy saturday

i wanted a wall, my very own wall for hanging sheets of
notebook paper filled with my own handwriting
poems, and quotes, and favortie definitions copied from
Bartlett's, and Webster's, Browning and Thoreau...

an attic room high in the trees with tall windows that
let in filtered light, and shutters for those bright summer days
when I wanted to pretend i was napping in a forest glen, or
hiding with the tartan-clad wallace clan beneath the roar and splash
of a waterfall deep in the scottish highlands...

I would rise on winter mornings and watch snowflakes, as large
as pure white butterflies, fluttering through a sky flecked with
magic....and take to my bed like a story princess...where I would
dream of a little room, where I was allowed to be me...