A poem on pollinator decline, ecological memory, and the quiet hope planted in neglected soil.

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Photo by Amy Hepworth on Unsplash

This didn’t start in a speech or a summit.

It started in a quiet backyard in Ludhiana, where mornings once arrived quietly –

flowers blooming without footsteps beside them,

bees disappearing before anyone learned their names.

I watched a butterfly circle a dying marigold

like it was searching for a home already erased, and I could not unsee it.

So I planted.

Not a garden for perfection,

not a garden trimmed into silence,

but a wild sanctuary –

lantana spilling over fences,

milkweed trembling in afternoon heat,

sunflowers lifting their faces

like prayers that refused to bend.

I built a place where the world could agree with itself:

saffron corners for calm observation,

indigo pathways for quiet retreat,

green centers where hands could touch

only what was safe –

unthorned, non-toxic, gentle –

where a bee became a…