Our Garden Hibiscus. Poem by Nabakishore Dash

We have a tiny garden,
a very tiny one,
juxtaposed to the boundary
of our small sweet home.
Some potted plants, climbers,
not very tall trees constitute
all the biome.

Soil is enriched by withered
leaves, flowers, vegetable peels
mixed with dried cow dung
once in each summer.
Never are used any insecticides,
and anthropogenic fertilizer.

We planted a twig of hibiscus plant
seven years before, watered it
regularly, gave some dry cow dung
manure to enhance growth.
Every day evening we see only
many buds of red, but never a
single fully bloomed flower
atop this adult shrub.

Once I was very much interested
to take snap of the flowers,
guarded the plant in the evening
as well as the following early morning.
I marked some one came in my
brief absence, collected some buds,
some were left by chance,
in that evening.

Next early morning I saw
a man coming with a hooked stick
and took away the rest of buds
when they were about to bloom.
This bud plucking is regular
feature of most people
in our area although hibiscus
has no perfume.

In the twilight hours
once I asked a man
why he picks off the buds
without waiting for the entire flower.
He replied that the buds open out
their petals if kept
immersed in a tumbler of water.

Habitually I am a late riser,
not very late, in the morning.
Once I deliberately woke up early,
found many persons moving
with hooked sticks and polythene carry bags
to collect variety of flowers and buds
in our surrounding.

This knowledge of man
is really very heart rending
when we think for a while.
The butter- flies, honey bees and
other insects do not get a flowering
plant to fly around, collect nectar,
exhibit their beautiful wings,
share natural beauty with us,
aid in pollination, seed dispersal,
preserve biodiversity
and survive;
it speaks of the
very scant regards we, human beings,
have for the plant care taker's
pain and the pleasure he derives.