when i see flowers i think of you

purse your lips and perhaps you smile

there is no distance beyond the hour

the hour that comes unmindful of season and time


this flower whose name i do not know

yet it sits right by my sitting room’s window

and amid its cloak of silken unbending leaves

bursts forth in colour of hue intense and pure

there is no uncertainty in its lines

no murmur of may i or if you please

they curve and flow as if they seem to know

which way lies the pathway to the sun


i see them beyond the glass a little hazy

against the light and i wonder again

what is their name and i think of you

when i see flowers i think of you


after the flowers is the flyover

the cars are constant their noise kept out

by two layers of glass, are there secrets within

do the flowers bend close to eavesdrop

they bud and they bloom and before one’s gone

another comes by, a closed little nub of colour

that won’t be denied let there be secrets or flyovers

or even against the light


the petals are soft never bending though

the way they hold themselves nobility there

when i see flowers i think of you

the hour that takes is constant perhaps

but the flowers they remain



indrani’s index