Blown fumes of the midnoon – sun spooning on a green stalk,
should it be – the marigolds.
Streaks of yolk pealed in layers and darkened in colours,
earning no scarcity for its variety, from North to South.
Orange brightening of the citrus bowls –
tangerine and lemon yellow petals.
I keep wondering, how they grew in multitudes
around the cemetery, garlanding the tombs,
oozing some rich colours, persistently flowering after each
seasonal death, rising again with no human pruning requested.
Maybe its not about fragility
The marigolds at the graveyard and funerals bloom,
it could be the hope of rising gain
to a parallel world of tangerines and lemons
or better an eternal hope of continuation,
energy in the roll like how I reinvent
myself for you again and again,
to fall in love again as if for the first time.
