Letters to a Young Poet V

September 3, 2018    
   
Chimney Rock    
North Carolina    
   
My Dearest J,  
   
     Despite being beautiful here, I must admit holidays completely dominate the peaceful serenity of mountain life.  The shop owners are preparing for winter,  when only locals will be able to access privately.  Words and stories will flow freely in truth without worry about upsetting misplaced sensibilities of a majority of tourists.  It's not that we're antisocial or unwelcoming to the stranger; we're furthest from that.  Visitors to these parts don't seem to understand the value of things, and thus expect a cheap sale for something worth so much to our heritage.

     I will be ever-so-grateful for the arrival of cool weather, as I was your beautiful card and poem.  I must admit it drew tears from a relatively dry and humid day.  To be considered half of something you love, is to become the very part of what you love.  You begin to realize the veil separating individuality is no more than a thick illusion of conditioning.  We are products of our environment and naturally mimic surroundings when young, whether intentional or not.  Until the age of accountability begins to fuel our strength to reject the herd for a solo journey into self.  

    Yet, that is the very power of poetry.  It evokes that deep sense of belonging that connects poet and reader despite distance or decades.     
   
     I actually wanted the last letter of this series to be to you, so it's ironic you would mention No 10 to me.  The beauty of these letters, is they're genuinely sincere; therefore, must be completely inspired to be authentic in content.  These are not those which can be written for the sake of writing, competition, or number.  On the contrary, they can only be written from the heart of Love for the sake of Love expanding.  Much like your poem -- reaching beyond the sanctuary of your beautiful mind to another; a self-projection of existing energy into an atmospheric receptor waiting to be charged.    

     This, too, is the power of poetry.  A dimensional expression of self channeled through a filter of poetics, containing the power to bond the chasm from disbelief to belief.  
   
     I wait for you as I do Autumn with all her splendid regalia of color: her golden sceptre reflecting light upon the shift of planet, the multicolored coats of sentinals laid before her feet on dampened ground,  the migrational patterns of birds flying with the wind.  And Us, watching with an awestruck innocense of youthful firsts:  a shooting star, belief in the power of that first wish, sparkler we hand-held all by ourselves.  This is Autumn - the replenishing breath of fresh air outside of an oven gone stale.    
   
     This is also Us: a dormancy of seed awaiting its eventual spring.      
   
     Cycles appear endless through experiences.  Season are mere months or years to some, while lasting lifetimes for others.  I do not know how I know this is our Autumn, nor do I know how long such a season will last.  Perhaps weeks or years, perhaps the rest of our lives.  And while we can never accurately remember the time frame of such things in this flesh, we can know what do to in the interim of our presence within it:  be grateful for opportunities to make memories that will resonate as reminders in the future, near or distant; relish the moments falling into our lives as flakes of snow colored red delicious, pumpkin spice,  maize harvest, and candied yam;  give thanks for the process of elimination from learning curves of black eyes, broken bones, and bruised egos.  What are they but painful reminders of Life lived to the fullest.    
   
     But, most importantly, feel the rhythmic chant of two halves beating hard the stretched skins of their dreams.  
 
     I wait for you like that, and so much more that can never be said, only felt in one half of the other now whole through the discovery and knowledge of Love.    
   
    In deepest admiration and respect, I remain    
   
Patiently Yours,    
   
Ahavati    
   
P.S. - A buttered leaf just trickled onto my lap as though wax sealing the envelope! I shall have it framed along with your poem.    
 
#RainerMariaRilke