To a flower-bloom in the garden
a slow, soft independence, this blooming
grace that smiles in the face of a withering so certain, so prescribed
immense. unscheming. quiet. extraordinary
immortal in the memory of you
always flowering. always describing. always affecting
like a thought from naught journeying to its fullness of clarity
like musty old books, like poems, like songs
like all things that rouse you, that make you come alive
then you see. you see that there is so much you haven’t yet experienced.
and that is enough to want a life of gratitude and hope
to hold on
to be quietly adamant and full before that final fall
Read Sourabha's writing here.