The Garden That Lives On

             
             The
        old house
   from my memories
 opens to a wide porch
adorned by mom with her
loving touch.Herbs,flowers
swayed to caressing breeze
 Lilies in pink, roses in blue
  and bougainvilleas that
   blushed in lilac hues.
     Green tulsi shrubs
      tended with care.
       Ah! leaves that
           flavored
           our tea.
            They
            were
            laced
             by a
             fence
              with                             a
              sweet                     aroma
               from                   tendrils
              curling              bluebells
              intertwined      in mesh
              The fragrant   jasmine,
               she sang to them
                and put one in
                 her wavy hair
Spring bloomed them to full moon. Monsoons brought a divine petrichor
that made us breathe the heavenly aroma of her love. She taught me
to care for them under the Mahogany tree that enveloped them from
raging heat. She worshipped her nursery like her own kids. Every
evening, dad used to share his stories watching the rosy blush.
On moonlit nights, we stargazed lying on the grassy bed and
listened to old songs on radio. I had built a corner of three
bricks to keep my favorite books to bloom and read them
on lazy noon with cuckoo's songs breathing intermingled
scents. When we left that house, the garden lived for
someone else. My mom had wished they would care
for it like she did. I packed my old books to move on.
Now years later, far from mom, when I miss my garden
of bliss, I unpack those books that still release scents of
roses and jasmine drenched and dancing releasing soothing
petrichor. For a love so deep shall bless me now in my kitchen
garden, confined to few flowers. That love still blooms with those
books as I inhale the fragrance of those foregone days. Like I carry
my mother's essence in everything I am, the divine garden of that heaven
from my memories and the eternal fragrance of mother gleaming, lives on.

~To the garden where I wrote my first poem


This poem has been written using the Shape poetry form which usually indicates the theme of the poem through a shape describing it.