Falling Like Badam Leaves
As monsoon clouds gather once again, I find myself remembering the quiet poetry of rainy days like those moments on bus rides, wind brushing against my face, and the red shimmer of badam leaves clinging to wet roads. These are not just memories; they’re gentle reminders of what it means to belong to a place. Here is a piece that captures some of those fleeting, yet deeply rooted feelings.
Falling Like Badam Leaves
The damp, sweet scent of rain—
it sways me with the wind,
like red leaves of the badam tree,
falling gently, season by season.
I'm the sunshine breaking through gray,
followed by raindrops threading
glass windows with silver lines—
the quiet signature of the storm.
I pass children in their raincoats,
laughing in puddles,
slipping like centipedes
across green algae trails.
The beauty of my country rises again
in the mirror of my thoughts.
This is home—where comfort blooms
in rain-soaked earth and rustling trees.
A place worth living for—
its nature, its creatures, its soul.
These images were drawn from monsoon bus rides—the gentle wind blowing on my face, the season smiling through raindrops. Rain and badam leaves evoke a special kind of nostalgia for me. When the leaves are wet, they take on a glossy texture that gleams in the light. Their deep red hues always catch my eye, much like the vivid foliage of the philodendron family and my childhood days playing under those trees and eating their seeds.These are quiet details, but they stay with me, season after season.
Ms. P. Riya.
Assistant Professor of English
Al Shifa College of Arts and Science, Keezhattur, Perinthalmanna.
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