By Don Kenton Henry

Woven of your words is a cloak in which you wrap your mind

A verbal and written tapestry which serves counsel to your soul and a shelter to your heart

What a  beautiful dreaming word weaver are you

Stitching thoughts of love, and loss, with rhyme

But there are holes within your cloak

And through them blows the chill of self-doubt

And sometimes colder, darker thoughts penetrate within

And you loathe what so clearly should only be loved

So we will weave patches for these holes

Patches from your words

And we will thread them with my hope for you

And this new cloak you will wear with grace

And it will carry you through time

To a loving, more forgiving, more accepting, better place

This cloak will protect you and keep you safe

It will fend the hurt from loss of the undeserving

Those whose straight line expectations you fail

Those whose self-interest you assail and disappoint

You will come to color outside the lines with guiltless, reckless abandon and ambition

Along the way, your wonderful words shall weave a psychic clipper ship on which to sail

And you will set your compass and draw a perfect line on a shore of self-adoration

My hope for you will become the wind which fills your canvas

It will carry you to the edge of continents of land and consciousness

There, your wonderful words shall weave a passenger train which will port the world along

through poetry, tales, and song ―

An Orient Express of emotion rolling on the universal rails of the heart

Expressed, at times, as lightly as a spring rain on the cherry blossom petals of our hearts and minds

At others―crashing like thunder claps―shaking the rafters of our insecurities

Be calm word weaver

You are not in this alone

That wind at sea―born of hope―and the fire in the belly of that train―stoked by my belief in you

These shall be your muse

And so you will persevere

And so you will prevail

And on your way to self-actualization, you will romance us with your expectations, aspirations and the nuanced implications of all you experience

We will listen in awe as you fill the sails of our own ships with inspiration

Tell us of the feelings which give birth to words which flow like spring water from what seems a parched desert floor all about . . . barren but for you

Forsake the solitude of that island of self-protection

An island born of the rejection by and the ignorance of others

So many words lie with within you like water in the deepest, purest well

Unbeknownst to the eye but untainted and waiting for a life to water

Let them rise to the surface and flow over us like a waterfall of melodious contentment

Quenching our thirst for beauty, cleansing our psyches with your transcendental introspection and reflection

Cloaked in your own words and birthed by final recognition and acknowledgment of your own genius . . . You transform

Oh, beautiful word weaver ―

Permit me a front row seat on the edge of your universe where all the galaxies are thoughts

Where metaphors―like meteors―shower

And all the stars, your words

Where―when I am lucky―a falling word streaks across the sky in my direction

And I catch a sonnet in my pocket

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