"That was a very nice poem dad, I liked it very much." "Well thank you very much, sonny boy. I spent several hours on it." "But it doesn't rhyme." "It needn't, Zac.  Poetry doesn't have to rhyme to be poetry. It can be "free form"-seemingly random thoughts but which actually tell a story poetically. Got it?" "Well ..' "It's in the language, son.  A good story teller draws his reader into his story by relating common experiences in such a way that the reader ends up saying, "Hey yea, that happened to me. I can relate." "Ok, I've got that, but ..." "But what son, what's on your mind?" "I dunno. I guess what you wrote and I read is really our story, isn't it? It's like the whole world gets to peak into our lives, our relationship." "Now you've got it. You're thinking son. You're figuring it out. What you are understanding perhaps for the first time on a meaningfully mature level is life itself." "Yea, okay ... yea, " his voice trailed off. "Zac, you know how parents often "threaten" their kids that they'll do the same stuff as their paremts someday after they've married and have kids? You've heard me and mom say that before, right? "Sure, but I didn't believe it till now." "Go on," I encouraged him to tell me more. It was getting real interesting. "Well, you know the whole flowers thing?" "Yes, ... what about it?" I asked. "I'll  have kids one day ... " "Please God," I uttered softly, "and I"ll likely have flowers along my driveway like we had for so long." "Zac, what do you mean "had"? They're still there son, perennials, you know. They return every year." "Right,  right ... anyway ..." "Go on ... " "Well,  I can easily imagine my son doing what I did,  remember?" "Yes son,  I do."  Zac was referring to how one afternoon years before he had plucked the orange lilies from their stems. When I saw what he had done, I scolded him pretty severely. It was coming together for him. I was taking lots of pleasure in this conversation because my younger son was nearing the completion of the puzzle.  "When my son plucks the flowers, I can't imagine me saying anything else but what you told me. Remember?"  "Yup it's in the poem."  "Right. Respect life son, its beauty."  I was kvelling on my end of the phone, about ready to burst with joy! "So life continues from me to you, son."  I got it.  "You got it?"  " I got it."  "Talk tomorrow?" "Yea dad."  "Be safe."