Stories Never Die

 I had travelled quite a distance

 to visit a magical place from my childhood,

 the birthplace of stories and dreams,

 where imagination and creativity took flight,

  never weighed down by commonsense.


 my tiny kingdom had been destroyed

 by progress.

 i stood  on hot concrete,

 staring incredulously at a large edifice of

 glass like steel and steel like glass.


searching my memories,

i did not see this

artificial  monstrosity.

rather, reflected in the mirror like steel,

i saw a cluster of wild apple trees,

stunted and gnarled.

through the eyes of a child

these wild trees were a magical orchard,

created just for me.

i sat under the apple trees in the tall grass,

listening to a symphony of insects and birds,

watching stories unfold in the clouds.

it was a Garden of Eden.

for a creative child,

the perfect backdrop for imaginary tales with

apple banquets fit for a princess.

tales which progress

will never destroy.

I believe that

stories outlast cities.


part of our shared, collective consciouness,

living where neither rust nor mold can destroy them


stories live on in us.


 by melanie jean juneau

our children 

The Joy of Mothering

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