Devi Divine of garden pots (and patch of green plot)
stood verdant
resplendent
at my dehleez and said
Your garden, my child, is full to the brim.
I’ve done what I could
with hibiscus and neem.
Not forgetting frangipani, of course.
She holds, like all my creatures, the fragrances,
the essence of the first
the first kiss on Earth.
I’ve decked the bougainvillaea in Rani Pink.
And the buxom Madhu Malati, that shy blousy thing, has woken to the soft,
heady, steady, summer’s first wink.
The oleander will intoxicate you just like I’d planned she would.
And mulberries are ripe. Pay heed.
Eat them. That’s their need.
Their purple will stain you, your tongue, your floors, your soul
with the first— the very first
hint of a tint of this world.
I’ve put on a show like I do every year.
You’re their gardener.
But I’m your keeper.
The grass, the dew, and all the earthworms who renew
my soil. Your toil.
I leave in your nigrani.
Keep them. Shower enough paani.
Work is worship
My child—
Worship more.
Worry less.