If I would meet the one author I admire,
I would not believe my eyes.
My heart would beat so fast,
nearing the edge of having an attack.
Goosebumps would be on my skin, all over;
the few strands on my head would stiffly rise in fear.
Perhaps, beneath a bearded tree,
or by the rubbles of a fallen city,
fate would favor the chance,
of crossing both our paths.
If I could summon ample courage,
and words wouldn't be hard to find.
If my feet have not yet found their way,
gone speeding down the road.
If my tongue has not yet slid back,
and choked closed my throat.
This one question, I certainly would like to ask:
"Mr. Tolkien ... how did you come back to life?"
I don't know what would be his response,
or, if at all, he would answer me back.
But I swear I'd jump a mile if I heard him with these words:
"Mmmmmmmm, ... my precious."
