Look at her, just behind the eyes
Is a space of dreams and solitude.
A very private place, where she flies
To far off lands filled with fantasies.
Clear streams trickle with pastorale
Sounds in neverending rhapsodies.
As she sits, flowers turn her way
Saying 'tread gently, but
Let us be your softness underfoot'
This is a healing place
Full of wisened trees who know
When she has taken her fill,
At that moment, they softly
Whisper 'It is time to return'
And this she does, knowing
That all she has to do
Is once more close her eyes.
You cannot see it?
Then, they are closed
And she is there.
(c) ZYDHA HART 2005