Of Catapults and Winging Stones

Of Catapults and Winging Stones


He calls me artist.
True, I paint with words
covering the canvas of paper
with strokes of vision,
refined with description,
defined in sound and meter.

He calls me artist.
Warming my soul with
his words. Firing
my muse to kindle. Coming
from a writer such as he
leaves me almost speechless.

Yet, I am a writer, after all.
Expression is as vital
as breathing. I wonder,
if he has any clue that beyond
his short stories and novels
a poet lurks inside?

For he does and it
is begging to be released.
He plays with words, very much
as a pianist plays with chords
or a violinist plays with
soaring notes.

Perhaps, should he see this,
it might inspire him
every bit as much as he
inspires me. Something we
writers do is push each other
to climb to new heights.

For, in truth, he is
the artist. I am merely
his willing apprentice.
Something about muses
being a catapult
to the other's stone.