I want a shed just to write in
with a rug, and a desk and
an old-fashioned typewriter,
but for now I have a dog-eared notepad
and a ballpoint pen.
I would retreat to my shed
every morning,
commuting across my garden lawn,
with my cup of Earl Grey tea
and nothing to do with
the day but write.
If I had this magic shed
would the words still come
or would they dry up,
drifting away on the breeze
like flakes of snow?
Having the wonderful shed
and the typewriter and tea,
and the time,
but without the words,