I will shake off grown blossoms from the branches
I will wait for new butterflies in their nest
I will find where the stream has met the valley
I will find where summer’s gone to rest.


I will run up and down with no reason
Brown mountains hard and looking grim
I will put my feet in waves where sand won’t find them
I will sit for days on a rock by the spring.


I will make ripples in dirty little waters
Fill my shoes with mud and stone and dust
I’ll raise whirlwinds by stirring twigs and flowers
For my paper ship, I’ll make a sunny mast.


I will steal breezes and hide them in my palms
I’ll sit down in burrows deep and smile
I will make me wings of feathers white and golden
I will sing as though I were a fairy child.

....................