After a day full of riding bikes, zooming on scooters, and running around in the yard, our daughter decided to take a break. She reached up high on the book shelf and pulled down an old favorite: Where the Sidewalk Ends.

When I heard her reading Shel Silverstein’s “Tree House,” one of her favorite poems, I captured this moment.

Tree House

A tree house, a free house,

A secret you and me house,

A high up in the leafy branches

Cozy as can be house.

A street house, a neat house,

Be sure and wipe your feet house

Is not my kind of house at all–

Let’s go live in a tree house.