Remembering Green Childhood
I'm living outside the books of you. I'm so far away, my dearest childhood friend. Your lands whisper, just beyond this ocean, the story of you the book doesn't tell. There is a lullaby for all us little girls who never say our prayers. No matter what country we live, the finger taps of the rain outside our windowsills, that are made for our dreaming, sounds like radio static where our stories resonate under the sound. Our windows are a picture frame that filters us from the forest just beyond. That's where the twilight always is. They conspire to set us free, to travel just beyond the trees to somewhere other than this. We all will meet there eventually, in that same place. There we children will grow up. Our green skin then fades away, as do our dreams of a place, that forgot who we were.