A Small Gift For You

If I were to serve a medieval feast to you
on Parisian golden platters for the king
of wild game, spiced wine in jewelled goblets,
we'd have dominion over all.
If the fragrance of crushed leaves and odour
of forest floor should cling to us now
we could change into oaks and live for centuries
with roots and branches intertwined.
If I could paint a masterpiece
of a daisy dappled and harebell shadowed
high mountain meadow in the early morning light
we'd be together for timeless hours.
If I could murmur the sound of rivers
and roll thunder out my throat
the walls of Jericho would
fall at my shout.
If my envelope of skin should touch
the margins of the earth
and my spirit fly, I could tell you
of the roll and pitching of the sky.
But if I gave myself to you
as a child gives a small gift
would you accept me with a smile
and not deny?

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