Grandma's white sheets fly free against the van Gogh sky.
I close my eyes and the thick, emerald grass becomes my flying carpet.
I climb on the back of Rousseau's lion and become a gypsy maiden.
I dance to the melodies of Picasso's musicians, hugging the wind.
Grandma's white sheets fly free against the van Gogh sky.
I am drawn back from my adventure by the sweet smell of snickerdoodles.
I land my magic carpet and breathe in the joy that only now I have learned to cherish.
And now, in my fiftieth year, I close my eyes and that magic carpet returns me;
to wash day at Grandma Bertha's, where the white sheets still fly free against the van Gogh sky. | 
