When you meet a building that is clearly old, not new, don't laugh at its appearance but say, "How do you do?" Because underneath its...

(I wrote this poem well over a year ago and recently rediscovered it while cleaning out my art studio.) At the end of my street there is a place with many special things. Where bunnies hop and birds fly low and bullfrogs like to sing. I go there with my mama and sometimes Da-Da, too. We even take my sister who is brand spankin’ new.   I ride in my big wagon until we reach the spot. The pond! We’re here! Feet hit the ground, and off I quickly trot! I blow the cattails watching