I made a gift for my dear friend
tied with a big red bow.
My offering was a labored one
and to his house--I'd go.

The day was sprayed with roses,
and wind was at my back,
I traveled up, and up, and up,
never looking back.

"My friend will love this gift," I said,
and up the narrow path, I tread.

I came to the house upon the hill;
it was deathly still and quiet.
I thought to knock and softly speak,
so as not to cause a riot.

The door was opened, and there he stood,
the one with whom I shared
my gift of inspiration,
thinking that he cared.

He looked and said, "please, go away!
Only a perfect gift this day."

"My gift is perfect," I replied,
and penned with soul and heart!"
He slapped it down and said, "go now,"
his words a flaming dart.

I picked it up and brushed it off
and headed down the hill.
The pain was overwhelming,
I thought I'd taken ill.

Then I happened on a man
with smiling eyes and face.
"What is that inside your hands?
A gift of love's pure grace?"

"Why yes, it is, my dear new friend,
would you like to see?
I wrote upon these pages
the very heart of me."

It was that day with my new friend
that I began to write again.