There is a Magic Cave
It's not far from here. I know where it is, but I can't enter it.
It's quite small, you see; only one person and maybe a dog can fit in there. But it's comfortably appointed with some blankets, and it's warm. The walls are decorated with simple art, stick figures in various forms interspersed with abstracts.
The drawings are simple—crude even—but not unattractive, and some are strangely compelling. The artist left behind their tools, their art supplies, and even what appears to be some form of dart.
the cave is formed by a recliner, bookshelf, and end table not quite filling a space, the sole denizen is my youngest child. I simply do not fit in that space, and if I move the furniture I destroy the cave and the magic.
I am content to know the cave is there, and to remember, years and years ago, when I inhabited a similarly magic grove under a hedge in my backyard.