A Single Poem

            If I had to write a single poem—
            just one—
            it would be for you,
            O lover of poetry,
            whose very life is a poem,
            whose every word
            hangs on the ear
            like ripe fruit on a branch,
            plucked
            at just the right time.
            I can imagine the soft breeze blowing,
            rising and falling,
            like the heart of the sleeper sleeping,
            and—
            through the window—
            the sunlight breaks—
            the sleeper wakes—
            the fruit
            falls
            softly
            from
            the bough.