The Season of Florescence

In the early hours of a Sunday,

On the backlane of a small town,

a patch of bougainvilleas arrive into full bloom

on a strange brick wall.

Flushed pink April-borns nestled in the arms of green,

they will grow over walls,

and electrical wires, come winter;

Free, nearly perennial, and not owned by anyone.

A few paces ahead at the corner shop,

a small man sits on his ankles;

Quietly searing a tall needle into the flowers in question;

strung together, the buds will be worn

by someone, somewhere, destined

to be married wearing flowers that

grow on vines and never ask permission.

A woman in white pays twenty for a garland & owns them;

secretly turning it into a flower crown back home. On the

top shelf of my own bookcase,

is an English thesaurus holding its weight

and five dried bougainvilleas

pressed between hundreds of synonyms;

Tomorrow, they'll be put into a glass frame,

Only to be hanged on another strange brick wall;

Free, nearly perennial, and not owned by anyone.



Priya Ratti is a student of Psychology and a freelance writer based in New Delhi, India. She is guided by the undercurrents of her constant search for wonder and likes to consume herself in the philosophical and psychological exploration of being human. She shares her musings with the world at @theperiscopeview on Instagram.