Tabebuia
Once a year
It is in the mood
to sing with Sinatra—
Half a love
never appealed to me.
The rest of the year
it sits in the back row
and hears others sing.
Then spring
whispers something
indecent into its ears.
And look—
not a leaf.
As if Van Gogh,
in one of his mad afternoons,
forgot the canvas
and attacked the sky.
Flowers.
Flowers.
Only flowers.
For the sake of art
it has ditched everything—
mind,
measure,
perhaps even food.
Who remembers hunger
when drunk on colour?
Let it blow
its own trumpet.
Let it cry
with every ounce of breath,
laugh
with every inch of skin.
Let every branch shout—
I am here.
A child gone crazy
in an empty playground.
Do not call it
a narcissist.
Sometimes
a song grows too large
for the throat.
Sometimes
a poem escapes the poet.
Sometimes
silence itself
pushes open the door.
And says—
Now.
So, Tabebuia,
spend yourself.
Leave no colour
for tomorrow.
Bloom
until there is no tree left—
only flowering.
Soon enough
the petals will learn
the language of falling.
The trumpet
will return to its case.
The sky
will look elsewhere.
Do not ask spring
for an encore.
It would be childish
not to know
when glory is over.
Go back.
Take the last bench.
Become ordinary.
Exist
as if not existing.
Hear others sing.
Until one spring
leans close again
and whispers—
Now.
PS1: Usually I am a vocal for native trees. But this imported tree called Tabebuia or Bell flower tree is an exception. I developed a special fascination for this species of plants after I came across them for the first time on Bengaluru streets and parks. It blooms only once in a year. But, come February and March, when it blooms, it compels you to ignore others.
PS2: This post is a part of BlogchatterBlogHop for the week Jul14 to Jul 20 with the prompt ‘Stage Light or Street Side’
PEBBLES AND WAVES 
The image needs no poem to reveal the breathtaking beauty of the Tabebuia.
The poem needs no image to evoke its overwhelming aura.
Yet here they are, each reinforcing every metaphor and every pixel, until it becomes impossible to say where the photograph ends and the poem begins.
Midway comes the moment I admired most. The tree quietly becomes an artist, and the artist becomes every human being who occasionally produces something beyond conscious effort. It is the emotional heart of the poem:
Sometimes
a song grows too large
for the throat.
Sometimes
a poem escapes the poet.
The closing, too, is quietly profound. The tree accepts that glory is seasonal, returns without complaint to the last bench, and waits patiently for spring to whisper “Now” once again. There is both wisdom and humility in that acceptance. A beautiful fusion of photography, poetry and philosophy.
Thank you for sharing this timeless beauty.
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Thank you too for your appreciation.
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