The day was just deciding to squelch towards the morose zone
Glum as a groan from a Taliban strangled day, tottering in dread
Where ladders that hadn’t worked to climb up to that precious lost zone
Were strewn over the massacre of everything that made sense and was drying
Then that snickering, snuffling plant seller with his cart of always alluring
Treasures of ferns, cactus, ivies, Water Lilies, African Violets,
who had cheated me royally by selling red soil with more stones than mud
and more than a 100 plants, always over priced, often weak and infested
Had finally redeemed himself, a creeper he had given me was now a riot
of little lustrous pink, red, white flowers and a ladder of surplus silver greenery
Prancing over half the mesh above the garden, like a dance of delirious hope!
Begging to come home to the graveyard of the grotesque to begin planting again!
And every single cutting of the pink and white, green and white polka dots
Had come up in ten new pots, like very good children, to burnish the day!
Alongside the hibiscus little yellow sunshine cups, bearing good tidings!
Pics and text: daksha