It’s that time of the year.

The grass is green and flowers are blooming. Pink and white, yellow and purple. Brilliant hued and redolent with heady fragrance.

Hope is in the air.

Like a mirror, a tiny leaf hanging from a cobweb line reflects the happy sunlight.

Among the fallen yellow leaves on the fresh green grass, a bright-eyed brown bird alights, searching for food.

Overhead the neem tree shivers with the joy of dozens of little birds dancing on its branches and soft breezes linger to hear the cadence of their song.

Bees are humming, butterflies flitting.

The tiny, shimmering blue-black sunbird sucks at the clusters of red flowers on my gate as squirrels chase each other up tree and down.

Pigeons strut in every balcony. One, plump and smug, begins to spruce itself pulling its beak across each ruffled up feather starting from the long tail and working up to the small feathers on its neck.

I sit in my handkerchief-sized garden and watch the bird’s carrying little fluffs of stuff into the recesses of the bougainvillea bush bounding the house.

The wonder that is life is beginning to stir again.

Hope is in the air and today dear God I, too, have a wish.

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When I’m old and the world is fading away from my consciousness, let wonder be.

When no other memory remains let me just remember the joy and wonder of this one moment in the garden.

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