Spring That Wilts and Blooms

By Devalcheruvu Ridhima

The single bloom of the daises told me all that was to be known.

Though we were merely children, in the midst of this one sided tryst, I was thrown.

It blooms so fragrantly and marvelously, untouched by vanity and vases.

Little would I know how much further the bed would grow, to what distances it phases.

As the days pass us by, the fields of my heart fill with daffodils so yellow,

The blooms within you are same yet wildly different, and I am the naïve fellow,

Who’ll believe the yellow of the rose in your soul could change,

To the shade of chrome, I desire so badly, that I wish would fill your page.

Sand flows down the glass, as seasons of life transpires on,

The yellow of the daffodils changes to gardens of many a color to fawn upon.

Red roses and crimson orchids abundant in this abode of mine,

All in admiration of that brilliant amaryllis that has blossomed so fine

And yet for my view in the park, there only remain the stained yellow roses,

But for others to see tulips blossom on beds well watered, beautiful as meaningful as Sappho’s proses.

Dejected, my very essence tries to rid of these flowers, their thorns starting to show,

Yet despite my greatest efforts, magnificently they bloom, no ends to grow.

So we prosper into the prime of life, the petals unfurling to their fullest content,

As the passion of the first spring passes on, rises a purer; perhaps gentler scent.

Lilies and lotuses now whirl in ponds of affectionate red koi; scales pristine.

And in your heart, I am yet to find any such bloom; pertaining to me to be seen.

In your affairs, eventually blooms a bleeding heart, a painful sight for me to see

With all camellias grace, I step forward to cradle and heal your wounded fields.

And a patch of blue irises emerges only to be trampled on treacherously by the sight of your honeysuckle budding for another,

When the blue hydrangeas and hyacinths are handed to me from yours, I finally vow to close this garden of mine, to rid myself of this bother. 

And so I understand, some arrangements are not made for my pleasure to view

To torture myself with the sight of buds which sting and prick my heart, is simply crude.

In remembrance of the memory which is you, I plant in the fields of my heart many seeds new,

Some which I am not particularly fond of, which I learn to accept in time due.

The woven silk of the delicate spider lilies of a brilliant burgundy,

The strangely addictive scent of poppies of the finest rouge, a mix of fine melody

The fading Prussian of a cornflower from suns past, through springs now lost

Rises; finally the pure blue of the Myosotis, the forget-me-not.

By Devalcheruvu Ridhima