A solitary stunted bud
In a barren garden
Of repressed desires
Parched to the core
And in need of love
To rejuvenate its being
Blossomed at the very hint
Of the touch
Of the friendly West Wind
Trumpeting the arrival of Spring
In its seemingly eternal
Autumnal existence.
Imagine this,
If a single hint of breeze
Could bring to life
This long dead bud
What would an Eternal Spring
Do to it?
Caress it out of its
Vegetative existence?
Fill it with fragrance?
Promise that it would never ever
Let autumn set in?
Or is it too early for the hopeful bud
To surmise the intent of Spring?
(16th April,2007)