Playhouse in the pines

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Frank Lee

Well-Known Member
Feb 23, 2017
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Ouachita Mountains
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The Playhouse in the pines
By Frank Lee Jennings
for Joanna


Peals of laughter from the pines
above the house. Wonderful
psalms of unfettered joy.
Children at play, at laughing.

Little girls playing in the playhouse
pretending to be wives and mothers.
Making things like they ought to be,
Joanna and her young friend sharing secrets.

A crystal rock edged walk leads up
to the front door. Inside
little shelves hold knickknacks,
memories, hopes and dreams.

The dirt floor she swept clean
with an old yellow broom, and
a small dog wandered in
and out, flopping in the corner.

All she had to do was ask
And I went right to work
building, sawing, nailing,
making her a little place.

I would have brought down
the moon had she asked.
An arm, a leg, mere trifles
I could do without for her.

Only deer and wild birds
Visit there now, excepting
sometimes me. I left
it the way she had. Just the way.

God built her another house you see,
then bade her come to play, and
so she did, in her youth
with the roses yet in her cheeks

and the laughter in her eyes.
Blond locks falling all
around as she proudly held up
the fish she had caught.

It may crumble down in time,
gather itself to the forest floor.
But not by my hand, for
palaces should remain standing.

It will always be hers,
with the small things she arranged there,
plastic flowers she put there,
my heart arranged there on her little shelf.