The Blessing of Words

Many of my friends have an amazing way with words. They write poems, some of the most amazing stories I've ever read, and/or beautiful descriptions of ordinary things that seem radiant after they've finished writing about them.
Here is a poem that one of my friends wrote a few days ago:

Comfort and Computers
By Clayton R. Sandham

In the cool blue glow of the computer screen
he weeps in a place he can't be seen.
all he really needs is a friend, a guide
looking for some comfort from the parts inside.
a very brilliant listener every slot and tray
it tells what you want to hear;what you make it say.
if comfort's what you really want you won't find it in a part
comfort comes not in a thing but only from a heart.

It's not his best poem, but I think that his point is a good one, and he said it very well.

Another of my friends wrote these two paragraphs:

Sahara Breeze
By Ethan T. Brandt

Facing north in a desert sunset, you observe a lone, undulating dune under a deep azure sky. Although invisible, the sun releases its final brazen energy on the western half of the sandy wave. Red-gold and as smooth as silk, the illuminated left not only faces the sunlight but also a stiff breeze. All signs of life go before the wind with the grains of sand that soar across the crest to the east. Possible footprints of dark-skinned inhabitants or tracks of native camels find themselves expunged. Blistering and parched, the west side rejects life. Gritty atoms fill the whistling air over the crest; the west will have them no more.

Yet over the sharply defined apex the hill rests in the peace of shadow. Cool and inviting, the blustering wind does not affect the right side – except for the eternal grains of sand that rain onto its hospitable slope from the sweltering west. Lumpy and irregular, the east lacks the exquisiteness of its western brother. But the east has something much more wonderful then beauty; it has life. Towards the base of the dune there stands an isolated and happy twig; minuscule yet green. Completely comfortable with the endless sand shower, the little green twig spews forth its oxygen proudly. He knows his qualities, and until his demise he will never cease to fill the east with the aroma of nature that the west will always lack.

As I was reading it, I was struck by his ability to take an common object, such as a sand dune, and by his mere use of words, could create a fabulous picture. A picture with a great deal of beauty that I certainly would not have seen without the guidance of his words.

I read the works of my friends, and am spurred on to continue working on my own writing. Wishing I could be like them, I toil onward, stumbling over blocks and tangled words. I sit in their shadow as I write, for I feel that I have much yet to learn before I can even be compared with them.
I feel I have much yet to learn before I too may be blessed with a way with words.