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A dignified lady
often visits me.
She’s about six, fatherless
and has a flair for words.
She dislikes her ‘letter life’
roaming about
in coaches, boxes and pockets
all the time.
She’s a storm at home
(her mother’s version)
though at my place
she flows like a gentle breeze
carrying fragrance
of fresh enlivening words
with the jingle of a child’s voice.
I suspect
a poet is in the making.
Posted for Poetry Pantry #357 @ Poets United
sumanar/lekha 