Gathering Together

Blank Page Filled By God 

Your verse is unpretentious, very appealing. 
I could picture myself in it as a musical metaphor, 
a witness to the way the formality of white maneuvers 
itself blushing over snowy rage; I the traveler in the 
nostalgic vessel of your parables, induced into the 
creative form of your wit for the pure sake of having 
something beautiful to sing about. 

My heart is my own but it bleeds out over ivory light, 
creating blue marble fragments over the density 
of print that trails slowly in violet sleeves down the 
page into conversational elements where extraordinary 
richness claims the voice as autobiographical, belonging 
to the hour where mountainous shores catch falling 
leaves in a brilliant discovery of Autumn. 

You are my calmness enforced by moving sound; 
personal are the lyrics that amplify stilted vision, making 
it wider, wiser, with the humanity of your body of work. 
I think you write like one of your angels, earnest in your protection 
and extremely courteous to your reader. My thoughts are 
heard in a desire to be understood, as you pronounce each 
word with ultimate importance. 

I am the mirror of dreams you feature prominently, proudly, 
without reservation. You are reasonable in your trust, careful 
not to patronize, sparkling in your genius. The few superficial 
differences we have enhance the plot, a side issue to the 
atmosphere of ease, of comfort. I thought I would always be 
something of a paradigm, destined to live in the world alone 
yet yearning to see it with someone special. 

I had the story in mind several years before I found you, 
writing the book all by myself until the narrative went suddenly 
dead on me; the notebook itself, still full of life, waiting for the 
realization of promise, not believing in revisions that would kill 
the originality of the write. Then you appeared when everyone 
else failed me, when I had given up on myself, and you turned 
all the natural curses into ambitious love. 

I am murmuring past my own blank page now, rebuilding the 
structure of my work with rebellion and passion, I the lead 
character within the waves and dimensions of your dialog, happy 
to have a particular purpose, one that responds more intimately 
to the promise of your word, not worried about deletions or 
being abandoned, left exposed without expression. I have found 
my tone in the air of the relevance you have given me, 

where every single touch, every syllable, counts.