When autumn whispers its final goodbye,
And winter paints a silver veil across the sky,
The Saptaparni awakens from its green repose,
With tiny white stars where a thousand fragrances grow.
It doesn't wear the colours of spring,
Nor boast of petals that dance or sing;
Its little blossoms, delicate and white,
Release their magic with the falling night.
A fragrance so deep, so sweet, so rare,
It weaves its invisible fingers through the air.
Like jasmine's tenderness, gardenia's grace,
With a hint of cardamom in its embrace.
Some call it intoxicating, some too strong to bear,
Yet it leaves its signature everywhere.
For beauty, perhaps, is a matter of choice,
What one calls overwhelming, another calls a voice.
October to December, it quietly blooms,
Turning ordinary evenings into perfumed rooms.
No bottle, no label, no artificial art,
Just nature distilling its fragrance from the heart.
Oh, Saptaparni, you mysterious tree,
You teach us what fragrance can truly be.
Not every perfume needs to please everyone,
Some are meant to linger long after they've gone.
And when the night forgets the scent of you,
Your invisible perfume still feels like morning dew.
©®Madhumita
*A poem inspired by the tree that perfumes the nights of winter
Some flowers bloom to be admired. Some bloom to be remembered. And Saptaparni blooms to be felt.
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