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
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
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.
The Joy of Mothering
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