Exactly five years ago,
you told me gardening is for the soul,
and for this mellowing mind,
your words have begun to bloom.
On an appointed day, should our hearts
be warrened within a rooted home,
may we build a Charbagh
over this English lawn.
A small Persian dream,
water and walkway,
shade and sun,
for seven generations,
familial fun.
From the first floor,
immerse inside a songbird symphony,
barefoot into morning light,
to dance among towering trees.
From the second,
greet the blue sky at the balcony.
Sunrise would conclude the prayer,
sunset, the coals of masala tea.
And from the third floor,
through a mural of glass
admire the gardens and greenhouse,
indoors and outdoors mirrored as one.
Beyond the garden, the water moves east.
Beyond the water, a canal bridge west.
Beyond the bridge, a park to picnic with
Barbari naan and the butter of our laughter.
Children, saplings, or ducklings,
the lessons remain the same.
They must learn the patience of a seed,
that care does not end at the self,
and the most ambrosial fruits
are delivered by the gentlest hands.
Exactly five years ago,
you told me gardening is for the soul,
and for this mellowing mind,
our souls begin at our roots.
5d ago
May 31, 2026 at 6:08 PM UTC
Exactly five years ago,
you told me gardening is for the soul,
and for this mellowing mind,
your words have begun to bloom.
On an appointed day, should our hearts
be warrened within a rooted home,
may we build a Charbagh
over this English lawn.
A small Persian dream,
water and walkway,
shade and sun,
for seven generations,
familial fun.
From the first floor,
immerse inside a songbird symphony,
barefoot into morning light,
to dance among towering trees.
From the second,
greet the blue sky at the balcony.
Sunrise would conclude the prayer,
sunset, the coals of masala tea.
And from the third floor,
through a mural of glass
admire the gardens and greenhouse,
indoors and outdoors mirrored as one.
Beyond the garden, the water moves east.
Beyond the water, a canal bridge west.
Beyond the bridge, a park to picnic with
Barbari naan and the butter of our laughter.
Children, saplings, or ducklings,
the lessons remain the same.
They must learn the patience of a seed,
that care does not end at the self,
and the most ambrosial fruits
are delivered by the gentlest hands.
Exactly five years ago,
you told me gardening is for the soul,
and for this mellowing mind,
our souls begin at our roots.