rachel field
This is the key to the playhouse
In the woods by the pebbly shore,
It's winter now: I wonder if
There's snow about the door?
I wonder if the fir trees tap
Green fingers on the pane;
If sea gulls cry and the roof is wet
And tinkle-y with rain?
I wonder if the flower-sprigged cups
And plates sit on their shelf
And if my little painted chair
Is rocking by itself?
