Espoir, Rain-bows /to Hope/

As the last winter wave
recede back to the oak tree I look
at flaxen bright sun resembling
to ripened mango with vengeance,
for summer no more yields roses
and sunflowers evenly, nor does
men and women take uniform steps
on Gogh's canvas of briskly hued
divergence.

I pull up my gaze and stare at
the chaos which spreads like
Monsoon rain, burdening already
weighted shoulders around this
vicinity. Ma says flowers were
women at ancient times, existing
as daughters of kasturi which
took birth from the womb of deer,
she tells tales that they are delicate
and outburst in cacophony.

The skin etched on my flesh
looks dark like those grey clouds
blooming at June evening and
it pricks me, tongues, like needles
going in and out. There lights a
rainbow on the candle of hope
every time a flower blooms in
spring, it reminds me of colleen
victories and teaches me to be
resilient when the last winter
wave recede back to the oak tree.
~Purva

Not exactly a #myth