"I'm just rhyming," she said.

"Rhyming what?" he asked.

"Words, silly. Words and phrases.
I'm playing, experimenting."

"For what purpose?"

She tapped the top of the pen
against her pursed lips.
"Well, every now and then
something falls into place–
something happens–
and there's meaning,
or depth,
or insight,
or joy…
It's poetry–
it's hard to explain."

"I hate poetry," he said.

"Well, I hate death,
but there's not much you can do to stop it."

"But you could stop writing poetry."

"I've tried," she said,
"and I can't."

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All
rights reserved.