I asked her for a poem. She made one that went:
It was night.
The love went by.
My young author knew love
was a good word. At times,
love spent time in her house.
I told her: That’s lovely.
So the poem was lovely and
the word was lovely. Love,
also, maybe, was lovely.
But, long still would she wait
for an understanding
of adverbs, –ly words that live leeward
that protect love and other words
from wind damage, from collapsing
if they otherwise held up a sentence alone.
What does love do when it goes by?
My young author had no knowledge
of Paul Revere when she wrote the poem.
But, for my part, I picture love galloping
through a town square late at night.
(Not galloping. I’m forcing the metaphor.)
Love is walking, assertively walking.
It is announcing, loudly announcing.
Get up! Love is going by!
If you are asleep, wake up! If you are writing,
come have a look at love, here in the flesh!
If you are making love, keep doing that.
Lovely.
poetry 