A Sunflower Writes To A Rainbow

By Swara Ghanashyam Ajgaonkar

“i don’t like rainbows, they exist on a

precarious faith in the impossible,

and improbable weather conditions,

while

i am a sun child- born from a beam of

sunlight

falling to earth in a Midas touch,

raising flowers.

i’m not one for whimsy, i like

timetables:

at sunrise, i unfold my body in a yawn

and bend, stretch, or gape into the face

of the sun.

at sunrise, each of my petals curl into commas,

cuddle back into myself,

settling in for a night full of

nothingness,

before daybreak and a share in the

sun’s grand parade.

but rainbows? they mean a whole day

of holding up a battered body

hammered by the rain, beat down on

by the thunder and the overwhelming

feeling of grey,

waiting for the sun to push its way through

and make the world golden again.

when it does, i relearn how to breathe,

unfurling myself

from the shrivelled up raisin of myself,

my body opening like the ocean, my body

melting like butter left outside on a

hot day,

while everyone searches the sky for

rainbows

and looks away”.

By Swara Ghanashyam Ajgaonkar