The Playhouse Key

This is the key to the playhouse

In the woods by the pebbly shore,

It's winter now; I wonder if

There's snow about the door?

I wonder if the fir trees tap

Green fingers on the pane;

If sea gulls cry and the roof is wet

And tinkle-y with rain?

I wonder if the flower-sprigged cups

And plates sit on their shelf,

And if my little painted chair

Is rocking by itself?