I am haunted.
The flowers that I plucked from the garden,
to mark some legacies,
have become garlands,
arranged for the beloved,
fallen bird whom I buried,
his face down under the shrubberies,
entranced by his final sleep and an
And petals drip and drop,
falling into open mouths
as family names leave with the nip in
far beyond cosmic dilemmas.
I am haunted
because my departed bird has left his
and flown over the tip of the temple,
as I imagine,
uncaged and free among the
evergreens, the river.
In the spot below the dead flowers,
where I buried him,
is where his still wings sleep.
There was a garden there,
some unfinished moulds of potteries
lay in a neat column,
with roses meant to fill their round,
and we promised to fill them each
and practice some gardening of our
I put some dead flowers pressed together,
in cellophane sheets,
take them home,
wash them clean,
to watch them wither and be blown away,
like charred paper;
and then muse with an elegy in my soul,
for their asphyxiated last breaths
before I saw them hence.
For flowers grow out,
for the decorousness of experience,
the euphoria of youth,
for the silence in which we caressed
each other’s bodies with rose petals.
Some grow, shrivel or are inflamed in
with sagging, wrinkled last sighs
and their scents and faint colours
limn bones in the last sounding of the conch.
Flowers are the only ones who make
on tables where Grandma kept them,
to adorn her morning tresses,
to use their fragrance to press
together our spirits buoyed by smell.
On that very table are her spectacles,
little, inconspicuous microscopes
that read between the lines,
to find multiple histories embedded within.
Everything haunts me now,
because flowers carry their scents
from twoscore years before,
hidden in cupboards and strangled by
spines of books nobody reads
It haunts me
because I have left little flowers
everywhere for clues.
The question is,
what messages will I be leaving
behind with them
as discovery is yearned for now?
My flowers make do with that anticipation.