I’d consider a trip over two quills and a bottle of ink,
A wooden pencil as well; an eraser-ended one.
A sharpener green and stacks of empty notebooks;
Two chairs and a short table upon a patio, with a drink.

And I’ll be content with:
A couple forests to watch,
Rings of rainbow to wear,
And a piper to dance with.

Then maybe after a nap under a lyre;
trilling upon a bed of proses,

And just maybe then I’ll write for you.