Snapshots of the future

A cracked teacup sits on the warped shelf of the old playhouse,
with only a rusty spoon for company.
The trees long to feel once more small, warm arms,
grasping their sturdy trunks,
and to hear the shouts of laughter
that used to echo down from the tips of their lofty green canopy's.
Bikes sit unused in the empty shed
and time has caused a fine layer of dust and cobwebs to settle
on the fishing poles and unused tackle box's
propped against the back corner.
Mothers never need to complain about children
tracking muddy footprints across newly swept floors
or of the bugs and insects
that for some reason keep appearing on a certain brother's pillow.
Houses are no longer being built with window seats anymore
and reading has all but disappeared.
The library shelves are hollow and empty,
names like Peter Rabbit and Huckleberry Finn are forgotten.
Mud pies and swimming in murky ponds are just a thing of the past.

Copyright by Rose Farris
2009