here we are like-minded travelers
that throw ropes and pull
each other up the mountain
slap each other on the back
praise a phrase hail a homerun
at our peak we were priests
of a first-hand religion preachers
that formed a conga line of
human snapshots and divine insights
lovers of language incestuous with words
this love like a tree
can’t make its own sun
retrieve its own water
climb its own branches
does a canvas need the writer
as much as a writer needs the canvas?