Early Morning

I break loose from the entrapment

of my mother, comb and brush in hand;

running outside, long blonde hair flowing,

letting the warmth caress my skin, I glow.

bare feet grip solid rocks and cool dirt

as I make my way down the well worn path;

branches nag at my hair, but most I push away,

I know it like the back of my hand.

finally! a long journey, but I make it.

I approach my own precious home;

Mom and Dad call it my playhouse, but no,

it is my world.

it’s red with white trim, like all the other Swedish houses,

small patches of crocuses huddle together;

surrounded by birch trees, white and magnificent

it could have been pulled straight from a storybook.

I open windows, inviting the fresh morning air to mingle with the smell of wood.

I settle down and place a delicate bouquet of wildflowers on the bench;

I’ve got mail! the envelope dances with color and creativity.

soon, I’ll deliver my letter to Elsa, whose playhouse is across the road.

but for now, I search for fresh strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries;

I find the perfect stiff piece of grass

sweet juice squirts as I pierce their skins and thread them like beads

creating a delicious strand, bursting in its perfection.

time floats by, and the sun gently fades, bringing the day’s end

my once white dress bears witness to the day’s activities

with smudges of dirt and dabs of color

I curl into the comfort of my own bed, and close my eyes.

a constant dream of tomorrow’s opportunity

floats through my open mind

for as a child, it is always early morning

with a fresh new day to be lived.