Letters to a Young Poet(ess) IV

September 2, 2018  

Ahavati  
Lake Lure, North Carolina  
 
Dearest Elena,  
 
     I wish you could experience the energy of the blue ridge mountains in their summer finale.  Everything is lush, yet thinning its grip on the humidity so prevalent in the south.  A myriad of green is altering shades according to their impending autumn wardrobe, now in the final stages of production.  Soon the curtain will rise, and thousands will migrate here from all over the world to witness the spectacular carnival of color that cannot be described with words, only experienced in spirit.  
 
     I received your letter with the enclosed poem, and must confess I was utterly humbled by your sincere expression of gratitude regarding my meager efforts to inspire you.  When it is I, who most graciously should thank you for your poetic offering.  How could I encourage you, except that I be inspired too?  
 
     This is how your poetry affects me: every contribution is intricately woven from personal experience or dreams. Pieces of yourself project an authentic signature as radio signals.  These signals ripple through the cosmos and connect with like-minded, reminding us we are not alone.  The resonation is a deeply felt recognition of spirit,  relief in having been received in such a beautiful means as poetry.  
 
     So, you see, it is not I that am worthy of gratitude, but yourself for steadfastly enduring the often difficult tasks of the taskmaster that is poetry.  For how could I be a mirage, but for you braving the heat of the desert in search of the wellspring that is poetry?  How could I be an angel of deliverance, but were you not withstanding the torment of rutted emptiness escorted by doubt and uncertainty where writing is concerned?  
 
     If I am your tree, then I undoubetdly exist only because you nourish me with the rain of words that is poetry.  How can roots of art survive without such sustenance of inspirational itself.  So, inasmuch as you are grateful for me, I am for you.  For there cannot be a giving tree without someone to gift.  That recipient is more oft than not one of love; that is true gratitude and secret of the poem.  
 
     The cycle of poet and reader are interchangeable in honorary treasures befitting musery of a pure heart:  a deep respect for the written word, and admiration for its development.  Both have inspired some of the greatest poetry known to mankind.  I cannot think of myself as wise lest I am continuously learning from those such as yourself.    
 
     What you see in me is a mere reflection of you; one that you blueprinted into your own experience.  I am but a beacon along your voyage you yourself lit before departing.  My job, per our sacred contract, is to maintain the flame you ignited from your desire to write.   So when you see that light shining on the horizon through the inkened dark of doubt, or that sign pointing in the right direction when you thought you were lost, or hear an angel replenishing your empty trough with inspiration, remember, it is not me -- but you.  
 
     I am but your servant on this quest, one who, according to your letter and beautiful poem, has the honor of saying to myself, "Phew! Thank you, Universe; I did not let her down."  And also, "Thank you, Elena, for the trust you placed in me to remind you of yourself, and all, and everything you are, and are yet to be: a Dreamer and Poet whose wish upon a star became truth."  
 
     In sincere gratitude, I remain  
 
Your humble servant in poetry,  
 
Ahavati  
 
P.S. I shall always treasure your poem as one of my most prized possessions.  
 
 
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