Blankets, chairs, sticks, and clothes-pins frame a tent
Basement bivouac ensures no random breeze
Squeals and shouts and giggling do not relent
Sisters romp for hours, innocent ease.
A pilfered broom creates a center pole
A big top cathedral rose heavenward.
Next, dressing up captivates each young soul,
a wrapped sheet, and round the waist a tied cord:
a priest born, mock solemn prayer upward bound.
Indeed, our tents were independent thought,
staking our space, protecting cloth walls round
young adventures. Together, we taught
ourselves to talk dream imagine free air.
Ears e’er tuned for parental foot, aware.
(NaPo prompt: write a bouts-rimes, a poem using rhyming end words from another poem. Poem used: The Silken Tent by Robert Frost.)