I do not know who the Tree House in the deep forest was built for,

and I do not want to know. I’d rather imagine the child it was built for

I think it was built for a brother and his  younger sister.

I think they spent many summer nights up in the Tree House,

with the ladder pulled up,

to keep the ghosts and spirits and demons of the forest

away from them.

I think they brought sandwiches and soup and milk,

and coloring books and magazines,

and pound cake that their mother made for them,

I think their father, perhaps a dairy farmer, came out to the Tree House before bedtime,

to tuck them in, perhaps tell them a story about the spirits of the forest,

to frighten them, but just a little.

He might have given them a torch or flashlight so they

could signal the farmhouse, well down the hill,

and see their signals answered.

I think they had a small dog, a farm dog, they carried up

to the Tree House and who slept with them, and barked at the

strange noises, and protected them from the wild animals

of the forest, and the bats and mice and chipmunks who shared

their Tree House and ate their crumbs.

I think something sad happened to the boy when

he got older, I don’t know what.

I think the girl moved away, to live in another place,

and live another life.

I think the Tree House was a sweet and mystical place, and that the

brother and sister

return still and often, in spirit form, to pull the ladder up and sleep in

their Tree House. If I close my eyes, I can hear them laughing

when the owl hoots.