Big things, small treehouses.

Dust of the dreams in the back of your mind

a perpetual story is what you might find

Ever changing, like the colour of sky

a moments reflection, in a glimpse of your eye

You are the painter, your palate may change

but your essence and beauty so steadily remains

Adventure you learnt, as a small child,

Your thoughts and your notions, like fire, so wild

Up in your treehouse the whole world was your page,

to paint as you pleased, so free and unafraid

As you have grown, your sanctuary remained,

with the walls and the ceilings so colourfully stained

Times have been testing, but with Grace you stayed true

In your dreams was a treehouse

In the treehouse was you