This took her by surprise -- for many years, she had been content writing poetry. She had written many poems in her quiet little house by the sea -- some small poems, some middling, some large. Sometimes she wrote long, fancy words like serendipity and iridescent and voluminous. Sometimes, she wrote small, simple words like daisy and cheese and heart. Sometimes, the words wouldn't come at all.
When she got too stuck, the poet would pack up a small bag with paper and pencil and go for a walk. Sometimes a little walk, just down to the crows at the crossroads. Sometimes a longer one. She always came home tired, but also full of bright new poetry, splendid and glittering and just a little strange.
In the evenings (when she wasn't out walking) the poet would go next door to the mathematician's house. They would share a meal of beans and rice for him, and fish stew for her (the mathematician quite despised fish). She would read him the day's poetry, and he would kindly refrain from talking about his math, because it gave her headaches. They were both happy.