Prayers have been said, Teeth are brushed,

Kisses have been given, Babies have been hushed.

All is quiet; all is still,

It is time for slumber the house to fill.

But ever so quietly the adventure begins,

Is it pirates on the island? or robbers in a den?

Should we move the pillows to form some caves?

Let’s row ashore and fight the natives.

“I’m tired of being bad”, the little one said,

“Get  your party dress on, it’s “Ball” instead.”

Soon the sheets are dresses of fine lace.

The pillows become men of rarest grace.

The curtains on the canopy frame the stage

Of two little girls dancing with their Knaves.

“Oh Frederick dear, I dropped my glove.”

And Frederick dear, retrieves it with love.

Roses are given, dreams exchanged

All whispered to the pillow that is Frederick Knave.

The dancers collide, and bump their heads.

Mommi has to come in, and says, “GET IN BED!”

But we are in bed, is the usual reply,

And then hatched the plan of being a spy.

With dark code names, and feet so soft,

Two little girls the hallway cross.

And when confronted as they reached the sink,

Their stories agree, they just needed a drink.

“GET BACK IN BED!”, this Mommi yells loud,

And as they jump in bed, they zoom through the clouds.

“Let’s ride rockets out into space.”

But the older girl decides to play “Flying Ace”.

Pillows are now clouds, and arms are wings.

As they zoom over Europe destroying things.

One barrel roll and a crash on the floor.

This Mommi yells, “I WON”T HAVE ANY MORE!”

“I really need a band-aid,” the little one weeps.

So Clara Barton gets a band-aid for the need.

A few whispers later, pillow cases come off.

The pillow is a soldier with a terrible cough.

Another pillow case ties up an arm,

Of a Civil War soldier who suffered some harm.

Medicine administered and soldiers tucked in,

“Civil War” is getting boring, so instead they play “Gym”.

“Gym” is a game with much bouncing and flips.

Of somersaults, cartwheels, and one busted lip.

All becomes quiet and whispering ensues,

“Don’t cry too loudly; Mommi will spank you.”

So another surreptitious plan in conceived

And soon a cold wash cloth is retrieved.

They lie down together these adventures two

Close, close together and more whispering ensues.

“I’m sorry,”whispers one.  “Tomorrow you can be

Queen of the castle, and the maiden in need.

I’ll be the Stepmother really mean,

But you’ll get to be the Royal Queen.”

Thoughts get fuzzy and limbs get limp.

Then they cuddle close together to dream of When.

Of when they are the princess, the pirate, or the bride,

The hero of the action, the Chief of the tribe,

The Mommi of 300 orphaned babes,

A nurse to the hurting, a Leader of the Brave.

And when the room is quiet and the breathing is deep,

Back to their stage their Mommi creeps.

Quietly, so quietly, she tucks the sheet back in.

Not because she needs too, but because she so loves them.

The Adventurers Two.

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Your poet laureate,

–rebecca