Strangers came into the apartment
walked right to the bookshelf
to spill beer on your book.
Your book on a hook dangling off the roof
attracted a white horse to the door.
Your book emitted physical waves
into the air, drying my hair.
You climbed a tree to write
your book where you wouldn't be seen.
There was no tree there
until you made it.
The shimmering leaves seemed to be powered by light.
The tree shuffled this light onto strings.
The strings hung from the air.
The printers sewed your book together with them.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Your Book by Matthew Rohrer )
- With love at once, hasmukh amathalal
- Through A Puppet's Eyes (2), Dilantha Gunawardana
- Illusion perpetuates., Rm.Shanmugam Chettiar.
- Love inspired meetings inspire, Rm.Shanmugam Chettiar.
- Autumn, Deborah Kelley
- Fear of God?, Rm.Shanmugam Chettiar.
- Keep On Groovin', Lawrence S. Pertillar
- Benefits For Them Do Not Exist, Lawrence S. Pertillar
- Come close, hasmukh amathalal
- Cows caught, gajanan mishra
Poem of the Day
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Dreams, Langston Hughes
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- Nothing Gold Can Stay, Robert Frost
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)