Today, as my grandaughter Adya and I made a little garland of jasmine flowers together, I was remined of a poem I wrote a long time back. Flowers have always given me pleasure, reminded me of nature’s harmony and brought peace as I contemplate them in any form.
They can bloom everywhere. Nod
sedately beside my patch of lawn,
spread luxuriously on the grass on the hillside,
even astonish an arid desert with their wanton colours.
They can waft their scent through my window
as they wind around a pillar
working their way up to the sky perhaps,
where no doubt they will turn into stars.
Sometimes they spread themselves beneath my feet
ornamenting a carpet. Or
wrap themselves around me
Sometimes they alight on the cup from which I sip tea
or nestle on my daughter’s gleaming locks, containing
a wayward curl. They
have even been known to march up the walls of a room
or engrave themselves on a box of wood or marble.
Bejewel a necklace, an earring, even a bracelet,
disembodied, they squeeze their essence into a perfume bottle
or scent the sighs of a desperate lover.
Flowers they are simply amazing
they turn this mundane world into a magical garden.