Why does she keep writing? I wish to echo her song but I keep finding myself left behind. There’s a piece of magic in the pieces that proceed from her pen, a poetry that expresses itself in such a manner that would be envied by the Romantics of yesteryear. I find myself speechless. Hence why I retreat back to my own garret and proceed to scribble responses that I’d never dare send to her. Her writings stand alone, dominant and unshakeable in their conviction of the beauty that thrills the soul. My writings would be merely reflections, meaningless apart from the source. Perhaps I could dialogue with her and sharpen her analysis of the true nature of the world. Perhaps I could send her a fond note in which I drop a few hints that she’s persuaded me too. Perhaps the only worth I have is in holding a candle up to the parchment pages that she’s filled with life. I cannot use any other word for it. Her poetry is life itself, bursting and singing forth the bones of reality itself. Do you see that cherry tree out yonder past the stone wall? I’ve sat there many times, holding up its trunk with my stiff neck. Yet it was not until I read her lines that I truly grasped the beauty of a cherry blossom in spring, even though my eyes surely must have at many times seen that very sight. The tinder is carefully laid and the wood is prepared near to hand. I cannot argue against the testimony of my heart that cries out in the night. Sometimes it seems the night mutterings are more true than the daytime blatherings. I would walk up and shake her hand but I fear she’d turn away knowing I was not worthy. I am not worthy. I walk up to the bookshelves that line this room and run my finger across every spine. The way is prepared and the path is cleared. Where is the spark? I wait for it to fly for only then will I be prepared to die. Her poems speak of dustpans and green curtains and islands in the blue. And even when she talks of teatime at dusk in all its mundanity, I see it, that hope of that which is to come. I pull up a chair and lay down my book. It opens to a proper page for of course it does. She smiles and reaches out her hand. Trembling, I hold out mine.