I should like to sit on a well-formed stump

near the crest of a grassy hill overlooking

a sunny glade, knee high and comfortable,

and I should like to sit and think and be very quiet

while a troupe of pedestrians walk a lazy trail

without much offering for the lonely figure sitting,

and I should like to think of words and colors to describe them,

that I might paint them someday and do so honestly

and laboriously, to etch the sight of my eyes

in perfect reflection, and to explicate the whole way up the hill–

for a whole life led me here,

rounded the edges of my thoughts,

determined to mine out opportunity,

that I should like to write something

that everyone should like to read.