If I were a poet, I wish you'd read my books under the rustling leaves of an olive tree, on a (still) warm afternoon in September, with glowy, milky light wrapped around you like a cocoon.

I wish you'd rest your head on the ancient trunk that witnessed thousands of poems in its life and knows their verses by heart.

I wish you'd pause from time to time and read aloud your favourite parts, putting them out there for the olive tree to remember you by, for your heart to soak them in.

And finally, I wish you'd eventually begin to see *the poetry within you*.

2023, personal work

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