Well, fuller truth to tell:
Hotel IS pine: the roof a cone,
A mushroom cap umbrellaing
Our lobby's platform-ring.
No wall or rail, so mind the rim,
But Goddess, what a view!
Meadows, misty heights fir-blue.
That oval hole leads down
The helical trunk-stair
To shadowed forest floor.
Mind you don't fall through, for
That stairwell's railless too.

Our bonsai pine's a tribute, you know,
to that famous scene a century ago
In Little Nemo in Slumberland,
The first dream-comic in the world:
In the gardens of King Morpheus,
His child, Princess of Dreams, led
Timid Nemo up a spiral stair of vine
Twining round a mushroom stalk
To shelter under parasol, from
A fierce noon squall, among
Fellow rain-refugees: a throng
Of huge butterflies. Iridescent ring
Of wing.

Well, fuller truth to tell:
History's echoes run deeper still.
Right now, our only paying guest
(Slow season here in Hotel Dream)
Is a giant butterfly... more or less.

Well, fuller truth to tell:
She's a lovely wolfox girl
With gauze moth-wings as big as me.
Days, she lounges on divan,
Breathes in misty vistas and
Sketches, lapping cups of smoky tea.

Though I'm on staff and not a guest
of Hotel Dream, I swear to quest
Till I am lapping her as she laps me.