There are doors to other worlds
where fairies live in green gardens
fly among all the flowers
feast on fare from foreign lands
hover lightly over still pools.

Emerald and sparkling places
of dreams and visions interlaced
with spaces where magic can evoke
wonder in her eyes, beholding
enchanted realms, mythic times, and love.

Have the passageways been secreted away
the thresholds steely barred
locked before the coming of gray beard
aged walker on fading narrow paths
wandering soul with stick and cap?

She will say it is not so, having keyed
the rusted lock, turned the spider webbed latch
and opened the vine-encrusted door.
“If only, Grandpa, you could see what I see,
beyond the red door in the green fields.”

---

Portland, Oregon – December 2, 2016

Photo, my own.  Artists?  My dear granddaughter and a Cascadian oak.