The Flower Has Wasted Not

The Flower Has Wasted Not

The flower has wasted not

Lost none of its pristine glory

Swaying in the sweet breeze of nostalgia

Arouses it in all a very fond memory

Hubris filled it is not

Gracefully giving in to the claims of time

Genuflecting as if and as if in deference, to the silent winds

The winds of change ushering in the passionate fragrance of the pollen grains

The pollen has now shown its streak

Wedded to the stalk, the flower now wants its break

Made restless by the beckonings of nature

The flower now wants its mate

The garden will never be the same

The milieu the same, never again

Yet it trusts that its playful mate

Will make it alright for it again

Obligations now shift and shift for real

From parental to marital, from filial to nuptial

Filling in it a sense of happy fear

Drops of dew materializing in daylight(!) in parting from its stalk so dear

But by jove, dew drops they are not

Bedecking not the exsquitely fragile petals

Adorning the burning cheeks of our dear little girl

Tears are they-pearly, lustrous and bejewelled!

For a flower, it is not she

That was only a metaphor

She is joy, she is life, she is beauty

That is our fat little Kaumudi