the incredible pink playhouse rose
into the clouds: melted strawberry
wrapped in cream
with gleaming windows
where the bluebirds streamed.
why would they sing
anywhere else?
it had peppermint towers,
a roof of plum marzipan
and no witch ever.
the door was a spun-sugar gate-
spinning, you wished yourself through.
we carried pails of the coolest shade
just to live there all summer
drinking pink lemonade.
and matching.
mary angela douglas 27 may 2014
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem