If I Could Write Forever

If forever would hold still

long enough for me to start writing

I’d harness the time

and write stories and rhymes

and break free of the genres

and write without ceasing.


If I could ride stories,

the plot would be my racing horse

whose reins are time

or space for words

and the stories would run in such a stately way

that other plots would simply spring

into action

to join the fun

then I would ride stories forever.


And if I could embroider poems

small stitch by stitch

and word by word across

an empty bolt of cloth

until I created patterns

and pictures so soft and perfect

so deep and

rough against the finger tips

that people would

clothe themselves in poems

by day

and wrap in them by night,

I would sew poems forever.


And if I could meet imaginary people,

people made of a few descriptions

and all the words they say

and things they do

and places they belong to,

people of all thoughts and colors,

people who smile and people

who don’t,

and if they could tell me their stories

through the words

that come out of my hands

and if I could then share their stories

with people who are real

so that people who are real

could learn whatever they needed to learn

I would meet such people

every day for forever.


If I could converse with all creatures,

engage in long discussions with crows

about poetry

or argue the politics of possibility

with the smallest of flies

or run circles of un-logic

around a carefully proceeding turtle

until all the dialogue in the world

swirled around like

a warm sleepy mist

oh, I would talk and listen

until forever had come.


If I could create pictures

carve them out of blocks of wood

or paint them onto canvas

or scratch them into stone

or arrange them out of tiles

with tools of

only words,

If I could create pictures so deep

that others could step into them

and join me in impossible lands

oh then I would make pictures

until all pictures had been created

beneath the hand of

the one who creates pictures

for forever.


But that is an awful lot of ifs

and not even one ‘what if’

although these latter

tend to hold them all together.

So back we go to the very beginning

where I wondered if I

could write forever.

Well, if forever will allow it,

I think I’d rather like to.

The End

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