Where does the soul go during work hours?
She doesn’t stay,
She’d dry up and shrivel like autumn leaves,
So for self-preservation she unhooks herself,
Flits away on fairy wings
To her happy place.
I imagine her in a forest clearing at twilight,
The trees around her strung with lanterns,
She is dancing to music,
Her frame draped in floaty peach chiffon,
The folds swishing and swooshing as she moves,
On her head is a flower crown,
On her lips a smile.
She stays as long as she needs to,
Until it is safe to recall her,
When all meetings are over,
All classes dismissed,
Until the next time…
The clearing is always waiting for her,
If only it were real.