By Henri Whitehead
In our tiny house,
We’ll live by the trees.
The tranquility of a pond,
Will sooth our troubled minds.
In our tiny house,
We’ll snuggle in the shade,
Our TV will be the window,
The squirrels, an acting troupe.
In our tiny house,
We’ll read by moonlight,
The fates that our written,
In the wrinkles of our skin.
In our tiny house,
We’ll slumber by the owl,
Hooting his baritone beat,
Granting us vivid dreams.
In our tiny house,
We’ll find our souls,
Inside the mortal husks,
Our skin shucked away.
