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April 25, 2007 (Happy Birthday, Mike, my son)

An old friend of mine from Farmington has asked me where the poetry comes from. I appreciate the question, and have a ready answer: Part of it, Brent, comes from you. You are a progenitor of my poetic response to things in general. Many of the memories recounted especially in OF DESERT AND DESERET are memories I share with you. You were in my mind's eye when I sat composing and scribbling away. What I remember I have made the decision to make into music. I looked up to you, then. You were a master story-teller. Do you remember?

If you like my poetry, my friend, look deeper into it and you will likely find yourself peering back. How this is possible is a deep mystery of human perception. It's a mystery to me, but then so much is, anyhow. I can make music and the music makes meaning but I don't always know the extent of the meaning that just got made. It is enough simply to love life and drink it deep and, as e.e. cummings once put it, 'eat flowers and not be afraid.' Good memories and bad memories mingle together and become the great symphonies of lives lived out. You have lived your life beautifully, Brent, and it has added immeasurably to my own.

I thank you for praising my poems. You are yourself a part of the reason they exist.

*****