Friday, June 17, 2011

The Palace

It was only a mud-thatched hut and a very small one at that. A great weeping willow held it in its soft green branches. The dry straw and earth colored walls looked dreary among the riot of colors: soft green grasses, wild flowers as far as one could see; the cold blue and white of a distant mountain. A dusty trail lead from the front door to the small creek bed not more than 20 yards away. An aged wheelbarrow sat to the left of the house half buried by the long branches of the weeping willow. At night, the soft glow of a fire could be seen through the open windows and merry laughter competed with the song of the cicadas.

Yes, it was small and quaint. If the saying is true that a man's home is his castle then my father's house was a palace and I, a Princess.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***