Petals of rose, strewn on a table covered with pristine white cloth,
a blossom artistically cut and displayed on a blank card;
romance seems to be in the air but the sight will soon transform
into a pathetic one with the petals losing their luscious glow,
fading into a dull, ashen black, even staining the snow white cloth.
The blossom too will meet with the same miserable end.
Wish the blossom and the flowers were left on the plant
to die their natural deaths in time, with full dignity.
Flowers are not to be plucked and petals never separated.
It is cruel and thoughtless to kill a beauty that way.
The rose shrub that my mother had near the well
in front of her ancestral house in the country
bloomed with a relish and fullness that invoked
jealousy and admiration alike for the red velvety roses.
My early childhood memories are tainted with images of my
mischievous cousin tearing the fresh flowers petal by petal
right in front of my eyes, with a cruel, wicked, merriment
plucking one petal after the other in calculated slowness,
to provoke me into a violent outburst.
She had short hair like boys and wore boyish attire too
She was on vacation in her paternal, country home.
she revelled at tormenting me and vexing my mom
I thought I had a right to the flowers as the plant was
the result of my mom’s efforts.`
It pained me no end to witness the doom
of those flowers which lost the chance to see the sun
and sway in the breeze and meet the butterflies.
I like roses still but the plucking is taboo for me.