The Poetry Tree

On a midsummer morning,
Or was it afternoon?
I spied a gossamer mermaid,
Floating on a gold lagoon.

She told me she was Sea Star,
She'd take me to the witch.
The one who brewed the books I read,
From "Wicked" to "Oliver Twist".

I swam into the silky gold,
And waded to a shack.
A little girl answered to my knock,
And my heart nearly had an attack.

"I'm looking for the Witch, my dear."
I say, quaint and polite.
"You've found her silly!" says the girl,
I laugh; that can't be right!

"No other has imagination,
Quite like younger folk.
So until my duties are fufilled,
I'm no chicken; i'm a yolk!"

She takes my hand with tiny fist,
And shows me, ceilings tall.
A cauldron (pink, what a suprise),
And vials line the walls.

There's vats of goo, labled as such;
"Fiction" "Nonfiction" and "Other"
Theres sprays of drama, salts of sad,
Each one not like another.

I don't let myself get distracted,
By the puffs of laughs, made into tar.
I summon up the couruge and ask
Where all the poems are.

She smiles, rather knowingly,
The face of an old soul.
This smile tells me she can't provide,
What I need to know to know.

"my child, poetry can't be made,
From potion, not even by me.
It comes from you, and in your mind,
You have a Poetry Tree."