How a poem is born, says Elsy, in this verse, exclusively for Different Truths.

The quill dodged her finger tip
to vent her pent-up grief
and delivered a poetic babe
wet behind ears.

She tested its pulse here
pace there….

But the precocious babe
ordered,
‘Take your hands off,
and let me be’!

And she let it be.

In the chair she dwelt
she sighed in silence
at the futility
of dwelling in a poem
for full days seven
without stirring
even a single syllable.

It was a full-term delivery
of a fully mature babe!

©Elsy Satheesan

Photo from the Internet