What a strange, strange, little thing you are,
nothing but words, but you take me so far,
to magical places I might never have seen,
into worlds that were hitherto naught but a dream.

You are a weaver of spells, the thoughts in my head,
all the things I have pondered but most left unsaid,
the journey of life that spins come what may,
all the beauty and wonder of each passing day.

You are the river that flows to the fathomless sea,
the hardly felt kiss of a warm summer breeze;
You are light, you are dark, all the greys in-between,
all the shades and the shadows that colour my dreams.

Oh, tempest within, may you yet come to be,
may you blossom like buds on the sweet apple tree;
Let each word be a flower that will bloom evermore,
like the tide ever runs to the welcoming shore.

Let me know you, unbounded by time's mortal coil,
let me plant you more deep than the seed in the soil;
Be the seasons that turn without reason of why,
be the words that are writ in the heavens on high:

Sun, rain, and earth composed in every line
and whispered on the wind for all of time.