Maybe today
The words will bloom
and I will walk barefoot through the grass
collecting them, sweet and ripe,
in a warm woven basket nestled
beneath my arm.

Maybe today
I will thread my glistening needle
with long pieces of pale blue string
take the words from their place
and string them into a garland
of what-I-want-to-tell-yous

Maybe today
I will take my dented hammer
with its worn wooden handle
and pound my words above your door
where you will see them
before I can change my mind
again.

Maybe today
I will watch you walk
through your green picketed gate
with its peeling paint I love so much
and see your kind lips shape
the message I have left you.

Maybe today. But
The words hanging on their soft green stalks
are too high for my reaching fingers,
my thread is twisted and knotted,
your peeling picketed gate is closed
and my hammer cannot be found.

Maybe today
I will be brave enough to give you
My carefully strung garland of words.

Or maybe tomorrow.