We were sitting under the lyre tree. She and I. There’s still an hour to go before the poetry-reading session.
“Most poets”, I said, “render their poems looking at the page. But you recite your own entirely from memory.”
She was intently listening to a sound of drum airdashing from beyond the hilly terrain far off.
“I knit in my head first”, she said. “I put pen to paper later, only when the light-bulb moment metamorphoses into an image. I then hang it in my mind’s gallery. Just a glance at the picture within, and the words start tumbling out.”