Spring always resurrects the child in me,
the waif in scruffy jeans and washed-thin shirt
who climbed to cloud-touched branches of a tree.
To that intrepid dreamer I revert.

Perched high above a canopy of green,
I peer at mountain peaks half-drowned in haze
and wonder whether pixies I'd not seen
sketched them at break of day with sun-warmed glaze.

From here I see a Never-Never land
where tiny dinosaurs and parrots play
on beaches filled with shells and soft white sand
and lonely girls like me have dads that stay.

How wonderful if we could dream again
wild fantasies like those when we were ten.