March is for magnolias.
The water at Port Meadow ambles in my favourite colour once again.
First conversations and last hugs.
And such naïve convictions about falling in love.
A women’s history month here, a mother’s day there.
And a global lockdown, which should be over,
any day now.
One March, your father shared your baby pictures with me.
There’s another with large kites flying on a beach. But I don’t recall who sent it.
Words flow out of me in verses
or not at all.
Like spring, a stubbornness
to begin with flowers.
By then,
the tragedy is so ornate
that these might as well have been another’s tears.
March is for beginnings.
And certainly, for endings.
March is for Magnolias
Written by
Vyoma 