she's lying on the sofa
her eyes are closed and
i can tell she's dreaming
her knees are scabbed and stained green
leading to her wriggling toes
they're playing the piano somewhere
in her faraway world
she smells like
new leaves and trips and falls
on fauna and fern
not sugar and spice
and everything nice
she smells like
climbing maple trees
and eating stolen raspberries
on mossy ground
in her fantasy forest
she smells like the wind
from meandering streams
and all the life in it
not the wind from factory infested
corporate messes
she smells like
everything I ever dreamt of
lying on that battered sofa
with my now smooth knees that
used to be a monopoly of scars and mud
and I gaze at her
and I'm there again for a moment
i'm the one racing after
slippery frogs and
tearing up my shirts
as I, myself, tear past
raspberry bushes and maple trees
in my own fantasy forest