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Billy, the desert does not know you like the heat. It does not miss you; the mountains do not move! We grow old. We are slipping away, but to where? The things we have written; we cannot take them back. They are here; they are all we are, they will be all we were! We write because we write; some people light fires in the wilderness, and wonder. You are my friend! You came to me across the 'electric highway,' but the heart has a pulse there too. In your book you thank me for my writing, because you are a generous man, because you understand you are not alone in growing old, because we look for somewhere else to get our joy. But we are Joy! We are friends! The heart is warmer than the desert; it is stronger than the mountains, and it moves with us. You are Billy Marshall Stoneking, you live with a woman who paints, who writes poems about you, about her, about all she is, was, and will be! She is warm, she is heat, and her heart is stronger that the mountains that do not move! Come, sit with me in winter and read, bring the woman who paints with you, and read, and when you write, write about our slipping away, and hold the hand of the woman who paints, and feel her heat, and marvel at her poems, at her art, at her! I am your friend! Dale-11/19/99 |
 
 
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