When I write poems
I play with God.
We race our bikes on gravel roads,
stop to grieve for flattened caterpillars,
marvel at Queen Anne's Lace,
curl back the corners of bursting milkweed pods,
watch their thousand filaments float on to raise new families,
    to inspire new wonder.

We play What If?
What if, every time you were mean,
    you got another wart on your face?
What if Adam and Eve never liked each other?
What if you could kiss anyone you wanted?
What if, right now, every weapon in the world quit working?
What if Jesus came back as a girl?

Then we go home for drippy orange Popsicles.
We sit with them on the warm, worn steps of the back porch,
letting the dog lick the drips from our fingers and faces.
We get serious about small things.

"What happens when we grow up?" I ask.

"Shut up," he says,
pitching his empty Popsicle stick
over the thin strip of patchy lawn
deep into the woods.

Text and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.