For Rhina E That poem that you have to write will make you write it, you told us, eventually. Before it even is, it makes us ache inside? Is that the way it gets to be, like other fruits of creativity? As seeds spawn trees, so, for the simple sake of what is not, one day, inscrutably, my skin should sweat, my bones feel gnawed or quake, and, once the acorn's cracked, keep me awake night after night until there's poetry where there was none? Convinced that I should take your gracious words of wisdom seriously, I have not written anything in years, nor been much bothered. Till now, it appears.
You're so welcome!
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