Indian clock vines hang freely
from steel bars
as I walk along
the stone pavement
of a botanical garden.
From spring to autumn,
the vines depart from
their slumber.
I must study them
and quench curiosity.
I do not regret
the strain in my neck
as I stretch its bones
and muscles upward
to witness their presence.
They are small in size
and clustered together
from above.
I no longer see stems
and sepals and buds,
but a constellation
of stars gazing at me.
They are pendants
of Mother Nature herself.
In a split second,
my heart ached
and my trance became
a manifestation of fear.
But why is it
that their flowers
seem to depict otherwise?
They are sabertooths.
The petals are to its mouth,
unlatched wide as if growling
and yearning to devour.
The anthers are to its fangs,
elongated as if boasting
its fortitude and announcing
authority among all.
A flower to be feared
at first sight rather than
be looked at in awe—
a first of its kind.
Though such similarities exist,
I must not ignore
the outer petals bathed
in the sun’s color—
bright enough to
suppress the darkest
of thoughts in one’s heart.
I stand corrected
for if the sun symbolizes
life and vitality itself
then the vines must do so as well. F
