She Sells Frangipanis...

By Dr Smita Anand Sriwastav

She sells frangipanis

on sea shores at blazing noons

her naked feet blistered

by the scalding platinum sands,

while surf crowned waves

frolic and splash relentlessly against

jagged shorelines,

reminiscent of sharks jawlines.

sun is

a golden frisbee in cloudy fingers,

tossed high by the waves

to trundle over cornflower skies,

and be gobbled away as a

watermelon, by ravenous sea tides

but she sees nothing

listless gaze hypnotized by

hungry faces back home.

Often she's found

making small bouquets with

frangipanis and random weeds,

or stringing them into garlands and

the odd lopsided wreath,

singing of spring and lovers in her

fraying lackluster voice,

to lure couples into buying her flowers.

Frangipanis are like

blooming virgin kisses of dawn,

wilting in the harsh sunshine,

however she washes them in

brine, in her desperation bruising them,

yet toils hard to sell them

expounding about their fragrance

as a love song dissolved in sea breeze.

Those croaked melodies

blend with the gulls' cacophony,

as she roams the beaches,

selling her flowers for a few pennies

calling little girls, women

even men to buy a bloom

for their buttonholes,

yet when twilight smears

gold dust on skies with Midas fingers

she's still left with many flowers

~faces drooping like sullen children.

oblivious is she

of her folly of selling flowers on

sea shores and that too in midday

people here want no flowers

unless there is a beach wedding

there too her meagre blossoms

are unwanted, but she

perseveres all day long

dry lips crooning a song

while she tries to earn some money

to assuage the hunger of her wards.

On this shore she sells her smiles

innocence and her kids' laughter,

kindness and love stories

all fashioned into bouquets, tiaras and garlands, but often fails

to put a decent meal on the table,

oft weeping her angst on

sleeves of silent moonlit night...

By Dr Smita Anand Sriwastav