He just didn’t have
green fingers
but those of a
thousand colours
as he commanded
coral ixoras to grow
in enviable clusters,
coaxed the voluminous
Purple Wreath to cling
to the arched trellis
which in full bloom
appeared nothing less
than a portal to the
floral fairyland.
He demonstrated magic
as Nasturtium leaves
turned water droplets
Into crystal beads
and bent the mulberry
laden trees at his will.
As the pomegranate tree
presented him with
the reddest ruby like arils,
he cajoled the headiest
redolence out of
the orange-hearted Parijat.
The Gulmohur whispered
coquettishly under his gaze
while Amaltas showered
the golden flowers on
the very path he tread.
The garden hailed
him as the king and
yet this widowed
childless man
slept in our garage.
And as his hands diligently
polished the terracotta pots,
he found time to fashion
the flat stones for our
game of hopscotch.
Very evocative. Loved the compassion disguised subtly.
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