Write poetry on blue paper
Because words are things that will come
When you build a home for them.
They tumble-tip-toe across the threshold
From the rim of your mind where they have
Been shuffling, getting cold.
You do see things about the world –
Beautiful things, for it is a beautiful world –
Even when you aren’t staring
Or stilling enough to grow thoughts,
And your sights become exile words
Who must be gently coaxed over by
soft construction sounds of pencil scrapes.
For them open space and obedient fingers
Are hearth and blanket and breakfast,
The nursery they grow up in.
The Wonder Here 