At Peace

Anika Seshadri

The lotus perches on the rippling tides. Its arms lap up the droplets from the trees, from the once thundering sky plop in the center, and playfully trickle down the leaves.

It’s center bright like the sun, burning in its efulgent glory. It seems the source of the fower’s pride, but the petals are a diferent story.

They do not stand tall. They do not have the fushed complexion that they should, of a childish blush.

Instead, they are bruised, like an apple plummeting to the ground. Just beautiful enough to be remembered, but too broken to be found.

The lotus, limp on the surface, carried away by the fow. While being bashed by the elements: bitter sheets of snow,

sweltering summer humidity, rain thundering from the sky, pebbles crash against it, as the current goes awry.

It tries to stand tall. It tries to have the fushed complexion that they should, of a childish blush.

But the lotus, scraped and scalded, petals splintered and shrunk. Gave way to the tension, as the fower willingly sunk.

Gliding down to the riverbed, its burdens failed to cease. The lotus laid not in cowardice, but as a survivor, fnally at peace.