Palash

Spring is for the Jacarandain purple, woken up coldFor the Flame-of-the-forestin red, in its loosening hold.When you let go of me, I sawyour coral fingers uncurl inthe petal of a Tiger’s Claw.Summer is for the Gulmoharin orange, too hurt to calmFor the unkempt Bougainvilleain colours of unloved charm.But the season…