Chrysanthemums and Marigolds

Monsoon has wrapped my house,
Dank air and dull light,
Amid the halo of a full blown summer,
She had planted marigolds,
Said, ‘festive season is not far’
A commentary of tending and watering, withered,
As some unknown disease, sucked them lifeless,
That morning, staring at sticklike corpses
She cried ‘ my hand is cursed’
As though she had known all along…
Now, In the heart of a futile harvest,
I heard my neighbor tell,
‘During monsoon, earth is fertile like a young virgin’,
Abruptly a cornucopia of hope swelled
Uprooting striations in earth of dead marigolds,
I found her digging small pits into the moist soil,
‘Chrysanthemums’, she said,
Engraving reflections of a season, changing.

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