Everyday, she tried, without success,
to string it all up together. She sat
cross-legged, eyes clamped shut; stood
on her head, belly sucked in; lay
prostate, airing her thoughts; walked
painfully slow, measuring her step.
And yet, it all stared back at her,
Mussed up, strewn about, incoherent.
Mere words, she looked at them,
lolling about in the sun, making her
sweat buckets, trying to take stock,
like a mother of triplets: one produce,
but thrice the effort. She plucked and
pleaded and coaxed and berated:
“Gather around!”; but they wouldn’t listen.
Within her, she knew, there was a story
waiting to be told; a song to be sung,
a landscape to be painted. Everyday,
she told herself, is a new start, for today
we shall finally voice. Love, war, peace, hunger,
passion, pain and introspection — today
was her day of expostulation.
But the days stayed mum, whispering through her.
Them words be tricky, smug little imps,
Hanging off the edge but never diving.
Them words, they laugh at her — now old,
grey and frail — taunting her still, playing
hide and seek. They still rushed past her,
and once, she was certain, she caught a
pity-soaked whisper: “You are the story, m’dear!”