Sparks Under The Ashes

I was born hundred years old - a pensive and lonely child who spoke the language of adults. I was a little girl walking alone in her colonial bungalow's backyard and orchard. I chased butterflies, danced in rain, made sandcastles and talked to trees, sang with a breeze and did it all alone. There was no companion. I was a dreamer. I was never in sports. Physically frail and intellectually sound I lost myself in books. Prose, poetry, fiction, essay, biography and autobiography etc, all forms of literature attracted me. I would think of poems which either I had read or my father had recited. Slowly I started making my own poems. Later on, poetry became a compulsion with me. Happy or hurt, active or thoughtful I would write a poem. I was not at all an aggressive person; so whenever I got hurt, instead of brooding I would write a poem. Thus I would take down the pain from my heart onto the paper. It became a catharsis for me. Like a hot spring, poetry gushes out of my heart.