The tree below the burning sun, That is where my mind goes;
With the ever-extending mountains,
And the grass that softly flows.

As thoughts of sorrow stir inside, And the space around grows cold;
I put myself back in that tree,
Back in that box so old.

That box with its walls of oak,
Built by hands of love;
Those hands that someday I will join
In the clouds so far above.

That box with its makeshift ladder,
That warns one not to falter;
Whose laugh is an eerie creek,
A laugh I would never dream to alter.

You see, that box is life
to me, And hope to me
it brings; It brings me
such sweet memories,
Of many wondrous springs.

The way we kids could
laugh inside, Without a
single care; A world with
no need for worries, A
world with time to spare.

I doubt I am the only one,
Who remembers a place so dear;
A place without bad connotation,
From a time unconsumed by fear.