Jasmine
the smell tickling my nose,
not the pungent concentrated scent
packed in a dark-tinted glass bottle
but the unassuming flower
not found in paintings or song,
absent from every bouquet
a repertoire shorter than its stem
creeping on walls, just to prove its existence
transports me to evenings with amma;
a basket full of white buds laid out
thread in hand
moving to a rhythm unknown
knitting the flowers till they have all found a match,
entwined with their partner
set to bloom as they guard her braid;
wilted by the afternoon
yet the fragrance remains
imposing, delicate, cathartic
a mirror to my mother