Flowers blossom out,

out in an array of colours,

colours that shout;

of their many flavours.

Flowers, in all their beauty,

in spring they flourish,

like it’s their duty,

or are they fulfilling the wish?

Wish of the maiden who wants to adorn,

these flowers upon her head,

or the farm, the farmer’s own,

who longs for a flower bed.

‘cos that would mean spring,

has come, the season’s promise

of fruits and grains, wealth does it bring!

like a fallen star, the nature’s kiss.

Flower, does the temple use,

to add to the fragrance, to the pious

priest who uses it, or the muse,

of the lover who gifts it to his precious.

Flower, or nectar as the bee

calls it as it buzzes through one,

to another, in all of them they see,

“honey” as their queen says “That’s how it’s done”

Flowers, they’re used on the dead,

as an offering to their souls,

flowers, about them so much said,

yet so little said, their many roles.

Flowers blossom out,

out in an array of colours,

colours of life, colours of food, the devout,

colours of the dead, the lover’s colours.

Flowers blossom out,

in a million shower,

but what amazes me is how the sprout,

rises in it’s beauty in the morning hour!

S Narayanswamy