The Crossings

There is a place that crosses my world and yours.
To escape from suburbia, I slip through the gate.
To where we are closest to touching.
The hilly grasslands and blankets of leaves,
I can feel you here with me.

Each tree stands like a castle,
Each hill is a home for a hobbit or dwarf.
The seesaw and swings are the town,
Of rambunctious joy and curious adventure.

But the faint scent of eucalypt is not like your world.
The palm trees are just that, short and hugged in fur, 
Exploding like a firework.
We can never truly be friends, because you cannot

Love, as the baby birds do their mothers.
Feel, like the children who laugh on the swings.
Breathe.
Like the deep sighs of earthy winds that weave through the hilltops. 

We cannot meet because you do not exist.
But these trees are real, the hills are real, the birds are real.
My Haven is here, and its wonder is eternal.