She dreams her dreams
Of hope and peace
A pen in her hand
A smile on her face

And in the clutter of her daily life
The mess, chaos, and all the noise,
She sits back and smiles
Thinking on all the laughter and all the joys
That all the spilled milk, juice and paint
Could never ruin, never taint,
For in every mess a memory was made.
That royal blue paint on the carpet?
That was a brilliant blue sparrow on the page,
Her daughter’s first bird,
For the first forest she painted.
The red on the walls, the tables, and dogs?
Her son’s laughter as he grabs his first marker,
Are worth a gentle chiding, nothing more,
Since that’s what washable markers are for.

So, in those moments of chaos sweet
She can dream her dreams,
Of joy and peace,
Content in her clutter
Her joyous mess
Her path, her road, her temple,
Her home called Happiness.