To The Flowers On My Bedside Table

It's spring time-
Summer, if you go by
The unacknowledged absence 
Of lingering, lethargic transitions 
Within Delhi's calculated, metropolitan movements
(or, the temperature).
You're amidst a clutter-
Sturdy white legs and
A smooth turquoise surface 
That support the imprints 
Of my everyday existence. 
You're the only intruder there,
Flippantly flamboyant in your transient brilliance.
Sometimes I wonder whether you're really meant 
To be here; I move you to the window sill. 
A breath of fresh air
To your stagnant beauty. 
The heavy branches of morose city trees
Pity you. 
I bring you back to the corner-
You look on contemptuously 
As postcards, paper, poetry 
Slither onto the table
And consume the flickering importance
Of your dropping blossoms.

It's been a week since mother threw you out. 
Left to me, you'd still be spilling
Withered, withering glances
Upon the evidences of my daily routine. 
But it's better this way. 
I can imagine that you never crowded 
Over the coffee stains and loose-leafed books
That stayed behind. 
Now, if only I could pluck away
The delicate petals of you
That drifted into the unexplored crevices and folds
Of this room. 
Happy memories devoid 
Of the oppressive summer heat 
That they grew out of;
Impossible to dust away.