Alone, and happy at last.
A bed and an open sky, smells
of dirt and alfalfa,
stretched bare toes
in the buzzing summer air.

It was like Iowa, or Oz,
or any number of Midwestern
fairy tales. Small-town kids
find magic, and so do
British wartime children,
but rarely me.

Breathing is easier here,
as is being, as is belonging.

Witches can wait, for now
it's
sky and plants, sky and plants



_____
copyright Miss Erin McIntosh, 2011
please do not reprint without permission