If I wrote you the shortest poem,
a word, or less
that said as much as any
poem, or more;
worked through this night, and the next;
by sunlight, lamp light
head bent over every word I've ever written
and all the words I haven't learned;
if sometimes I cried, and thought I'd never stop,
and sometimes I found a word
that was not the right word
but it was a good word,
a perfectly sweet word
so I held it to my chest for a while;
curled up in bed with it,
stood there, waving
long after it was gone;
if I wrote you the shortest poem
and rode my bike to your house
because I wanted to give it to you
while it was still warm,
would your door be open?
Would you smile for days?
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 10:47 AM UTC
If I wrote you the shortest poem,
a word, or less
that said as much as any
poem, or more;
worked through this night, and the next;
by sunlight, lamp light
head bent over every word I've ever written
and all the words I haven't learned;
if sometimes I cried, and thought I'd never stop,
and sometimes I found a word
that was not the right word
but it was a good word,
a perfectly sweet word
so I held it to my chest for a while;
curled up in bed with it,
stood there, waving
long after it was gone;
if I wrote you the shortest poem
and rode my bike to your house
because I wanted to give it to you
while it was still warm,
would your door be open?
Would you smile for days?
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