For Weatherwoman: the difference between us

I wrote this for her a while ago when we were speaking. I hope Weatherwoman finds her way back. October 5, 2008 - Sunday The crisp in the air today made me think of you... She knows She is a Poet, a fluid syllable--the primary color of fire-- that cannot help but be an element for all things lesser. A river without a source that undeniably churns us all along, for stones and mire must acquiesce to the force of the inherent tide. I long to be a Poet: a newborn musical chord whose birth signifies a consummation of soul and sound so amorous that we wonder why it has never been in existence before. Instead comes a tune that sounds familiar to one I heard a long time ago-- yeah, now I remember, it's a cover song. The original was better, anyway. I am only a Writer: disjointed syllables haphazardly strung together by scotch tape and hope. I am one of those sad colors of the spectrum that will never be associated with fire but rather Campbell's pea soup. A Writer's words disagree and refuse to move. Maybe if i just braid their hair and brush their teeth, I think, no one will notice. Polishing old penny loafers, enticing you to taste a spoonful. Oh Poet, you are the possessor of your creation, not just a malingering tributary. You are a sedementary star whose words move when she says. This Writer is made of paper mache--a hardened shell--fragile, and whose purpose is merely an afterthought of a substance that once was there. I would like to know, Dear One, how do I get there from here?