MY SWORD AND MY SHEILD

I have two very good, old and dear friends. They are, I think, supposed to reside on a bookshelf. My friends, however, never seem to make it home. They live like gypsies. Their covers and pages are worn and stained from the friction of my caresses. I keep threatening to replace them. Even my cats are jealous of them, as witnessed by the bite marks on them.

I met them in high school. They are fast approaching their thirties now. They have been ever faithful, fruitful and forthcoming with their combined knowledge. They are never petty, jealous or grudging. They wait patiently for me to pick them up and drag them along on all moves and every adventure. They clarify newly gained knowledge. They inspire higher elevations of creativity in my vocabulary and writing. They correct my bias toward incorrect spelling. They expand my communication borders. Like the edges of the universe expanding and mutating in a reflection of my growing soul.

Many people call my friends tools, like they are implements or utensils. To me they are lovely acquaintances, bosom friends, partners, companions and intimates. I come to them with privation or need. They dole out insight resembling alms for my diction.

My compatriots names are Dictionary and Thesaurus. They are and always have been requisite in my life. The striations of diversity within their pages are poetic to my optical and auditory nerves. They bring color and life to what I read, hear and say.

Mr. Webster and Mr. Roget, I thank you and applaud you. You have brought insight and multifariousness to my utterances and my scribble. You have armed and guarded me against ignorance, repetition and error in both oral and printed communication.

To my friends: I pray your binding never fails and your ink never fades. You are essential components of my referential arsenal. Without you my poetry is flat, my speech is stale and my writing would be illegible and dull. The depths of my appreciation, my devotion are fathomless. Your succor is never ending. Your patience in correcting me is merciful and incessant. I could live without you, but I would be mournful, vapid and imprecise for the loss of your companionship.