"Cracks through the sunshite
Makes the world below look bitty kitty."
- Jackson Theriault, 4.5 years old, January, 2011.
This morning when I picked him up from preschool, Jack's teacher made sure that he showed me his worksheet where he matched up the pictures of words that rhyme. On the ride home I gave him words and asked him what words he could think of that rhymed with them. It took him a while to really get the idea, but once he did his face lit up like he was on a Ferris wheel. If you know Jack, that's about as good as it gets.
"Ok Jack, what rhymes with street?"
"Well, S starts with street..."
Yup, and what rhymes with street?"
"That's not a real word."
So now our unwitting poet knows how to rhyme. It took me about thirty-one years to voluntarily pick up a book of poetry, with the result that I find myself so lost in the ocean of poetry that every poem I read now either seems unbelievably brilliant and earth-shaking...or obnoxious. And now, as my reward for rejecting the art form, my son may very well embrace it, and I will finally receive the education that I so sorely need.