Come gently, if you come
not with thunder or blazing stars,
but with pollen on your sleeves
and the scent of pears in your scarf.
Bring nothing but your words,
your inkwell and a feather quill,
your quiet joy in the way books smell
and how sunlight scatters through a suncatcher.
Let your eyes be green
not emerald, not envy,
but the kind of green that moss keeps
when it blooms beneath old stone fountains.
Let your hair be gold
not blinding, not like sun,
but the gold of ripened paddy fields
beneath a clear blue summer sky.
And if you find me,
know I’ve waited with poems in my pockets
and a kettle always ready.
Let’s not just write. Let’s waltz into it,
like a library with no closing hour.
~R ✨