Dreams of children contain silly things. Like flying teacups and daffodil rings. And in these dreams, the rings do sing and translate into sound playgrounds only for children to drink.

In the playground, I do remember, not a mild, quaint September, but a forest thick with trees and leaves and fire bees that drew banners behind quiet ember.

There, cats wear clothes, and never lock their doors. Even the boogiemen sleep with teddy bears wrapped in their boney claws.

Since then, boogiemen’s claws have given way to briefcases and ties. Teacups wings fade to simple packets of leaves. Cats in trousers feel uncomfortable.

Daffodil rings wilt.

But at times, we stilt, back to the lilt and rhyme of a child’s time where whimsy yet whirls in our imagination.