Poet's

Sometimes I used to drop my satchel just at the stair and run directly towards the fence, to see that plant, a climber, with red tiny flowers as tiny as the real star that we see at night ,there!. It was very beautiful but it would bloom with the sun to wither with midday and next batch would bloom to set with the sun, so short was its life and I wanted this beautiful thing to last longer……….if not forever.Not knowing what to do about it I would just pluck it and stare for some minutes, many a times I would put it against my white uniform and press it, hard and carefully, intending to get its star print but many times I would fail and it would appear any thing but a star…...irrespective of fail or pass I would always have its purple, untidy kind of purple marks in my shirt till mother washed it, some of them remained there forever. And many a times I would press it between pages, till they turn to purple, dark brown and ultimately pale. Sometimes I would put it as rings in between my fingers, as studs in my friend’s ears or stuck it to my dolls hair. Besides that I knew no other way to save it longer.