The first flower

The first flower is fixed in my sky, waving in wind.
Its white fragrance is mine alone in its blue space,
The wind I do not own, but here this balcony I own
In bricks and cement, in sand from the river’s holes.

The flower is mine for claim to neighbors
And the squirrel that passes by, whoever.
When it dies and falls, I alone shall mourn.


About nisheedhi

Retired banker with poetry and photography as chief interests
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