Was a tale of Narnia
Or perhaps another Secret Garden.
I mourn the adventures
In my head
That never met the page.
I have heard
The animals speak
And have seen
The trees dance.
Pen to page is fruitless
Unlike the laden trees
In my imagination
I retire the pen
Which no longer writes
The tales begin to fade.
For Open Link Monday at
Imaginary Garden With Real Toads
