Winter
whispers promises.
Spring clears its throat with flowers.
Everything blooms politely,
on time.
Except the
gulmohar.
It is not a
morning flower,
not a breeze-flower,
not something that opens
to be admired gently.
It waits for
the sun to lean closer,
for afternoons to taste like metal,
for roads to shimmer,
for leaves to curl inward
like tired hands.
When the
world begins to thirst,
the gulmohar drinks light.
April sets
it on fire.
May lets it burn.
Red spills
from its branches
like pomegranate broken open,
like embers caught in green fingers.
Sometimes orange,
sometimes yellow—
as if the sun forgot pieces of itself
in the tree.
While other
colours retreat,
this one arrives.
While gardens go quiet,
this one speaks in flame.
It is mango
season confidence,
watermelon courage—
sweetness that needs heat to exist.
Not early.
Not delicate.
Not asking to be different.
Just summer,
discovering it has a superpower,
and wearing it
in full daylight.
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