by Mariah Wallace
I am a house. I’m built in a tree.
With an old rickety ladder and swing.
Only children come to live in me.
They sit, and laugh. Talk and play.
It always gives me joy to see them.
My little red carpet feels fuzzy and warm,
when it clings to their shoes.
My wood boards squeak when they climb inside.
The sun sparkles in the window like a blanket over the mountain.
And when their mother calls them in for dinner,
They clamber down the ladder and
Go to bed for the night.