The perfect place.

Forty-eight hours.
Free of anxiety,
Free of commitments,
Free.
Perhaps, in this place, calories don't count.
And if they do,
So what?
Surrounded by sweet nothing,
Untouchable,
But closer to you
Than I could ever be back home.
This place, I know well
And never appreciated.
The temperature taunted
The miniature mice mocked.
But, above all, you were there.

We made memories
That I recall in this place.
The slippery ledge that almost claimed me
And did claim your brother, for a time.
The nasty nettle
That sliced my legs,
Allowing you to bandage them up.
The old pole,
Leaning with its lonely line,
Waiting to be used again, to be loved again.
I remember making the improvements, too.
The screen to keep the insects away,
The well, saving us money on plastic bottles,
The few pieces of wood,
Preventing gravity from claiming our pillows while we slept.
You are proud of this place
As you should be;
Built with your own hands
By the strength of your back.
And you keep inventing improvements
To encourage her to join you,
To make it more like home.
Stop.
It's perfect.

I only wish I had realized earlier
The magic of this place.
The closeness to nature
That is impossible to reach at home,
And that clear night sky,
Unpolluted,
Framed by the surrounding oaks.
Now, I see.
I understand.
In my youth, I couldn't comprehend
The love you felt for this structure,
For the surrounding area.
It is your kingdom,
And I am the Princess.
At home, I have very little,
And the same in this place.
But, ownership is objective.
No one owns the Earth
Or the sky
Or the oaks
Or the nettle
Or the ledge.
But all of these treasures are in our kingdom,
Given to us by a secret admirer
Like an anonymous note under the desk.
"Here," It says,
"I am for you.
Fret not, Princess.
It's perfect."