The Mogra in my Window

The buds of a mogra are small pearls,
like closed fists hiding a child’s treasure.
Unopened, they hold promise, the coming
of a future — lovely, fragrant, ephemeral —
a cloud-hued comet in the palm of 
God’s hands; quietly safekeeping secrets
I confessed to the Earth, promises I made 
to myself, swinging in the wind, anticipating
the rains, leaving my hair scented when
I wear them, their flowering days spent in
elegance, until they find their rest in beauty.