By Margaret Atwood

I would like to watch you sleeping.
Which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
Sleeping.
I would like to sleep with you,
To enter your sleep as its smooth dark wave slides over my head.

And walk with you through that lucent wavering forest of blue-green leaves
With its watery sun and three moons
Towards the cave where you must descend,
Towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver branch,
The small white flower,
The one word that will protect you from the grief at the center of your dream.
From the grief at the center.
I would like to follow you up the long stairway again and become the boat that would row you back carefully.
A flame in two cupped hands to where your body lies beside me.
And as you enter it as easily as breathing in.

I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only.
I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary. 

I like to write the poems I love over and over again. Typed out or by hand. And really immerse myself in it as I'm writing it. And I believe for just one moment that perhaps I could be capable of producing such beauty too.