If I write a letter, how will I make it long enough?

I could probably fill the entire month of April with poems by the lovely Naomi Shihab Nye (1952-), whose work continually comforts and delights me.

“Spruce Street, Berkeley”

If a street is named for a tree, 
it is right that flowers
bloom purple and feel like cats,
that people are leaves drifting
downhill in morning fog.

Everyone came outside to see
the moon setting like a perfect
orange mouth tipped up to heaven.

Now the cars sleep against curbs. 
If I write a letter,
how will I make it long enough?

There is a place to stand
where you can see so many lights
you forget you are one of them. 

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