The children put their love and fury
in the doll house.
They ascend the stairs
to their beds.
Move the furniture about
like playful spirits,
while diminutive faces
gaze from the chairs.
They speak to their friends,
to their make believe children.
Listen to the dialogue,
how direct and honest!
There is trust between make believe
and themselves.
The truth does not hurt them.
Life is empathy,
monsters,
fairies,
the script of their own reality,
and I note as much as I can
who no longer sees or hears
with such flawless understanding.
The children are playing
in the doll house of the soul,
the inner part of wonder,
the place inside my heart
begging me to let it out,
as I fumble with the keys
to its door.