My honey brown hair is blowing in the wind,
and my nightgown is trying to stir up trouble again; my feet are bare, the grass is wet, and the breeze - even though daring - is heavenly sent.
I wake up.
I get off my king-sized Victorian bed, not caring about the world ahead.
I am finally out of my room, going down the grand stairs - in circles and circles I go -
Just to get to my sacred place - a place where I am truly free.

I go through my father’s studio, into the ballroom where we host grand masquerades, and where once, my friends and I played charades.
Out the door I go into the sleeping world to find my special place.
I follow the path to the woods I have always used, where sometimes I got in trouble for bringing a boy or two.
I follow the path to the old barn my great grandfather built; I hear owls and siren songs.
This is where I belong.
I climb the ladder, crawl into a corner,
Dance and laugh, alone.
I awake in my room under my vintage sheets.

Was this just a dream, I wonder?
I uncover to go to the bathroom, and there I see
grass on my feet.