You know how you are at nineteen

You know how you are at nineteen,

halfway through despair and hope,

 trying to quit some things, trying to

pick up a few fallen dreams, stepping on

 crunchy brown leaves, talking a wrong

turn on the way to the dentist, feeling as

scared as you were at six when you suffered

 your first toothache, and finding a florist,

your eyes feasting on riot of colours

each bunch more lovelier than the other

 yellow daffodils just the way Wordsworth

 described them, violet gladiolus, pristine white lilies,

 though you trampled on your mother’s flower beds

as a child and delighted in plucking them, intending it

 for prayer services to a deity of toy- blonde blue-eyed

teen on a her red convertible, the envy of

 the neighbouring kids, and then you think

of how you would be a twenty-something, with a house

of your own-furnished with white curtains with delicate

 prints of carnations daintily flying to welcome you

as you open your door, a warm red rug

 at the centre of your living room, yellow chairs

in the kitchen, shelves of books in every room,

 a clock from a street in St. Moritz, the wall hanging

 from Rangoon and other things, because by then

you would have been to a few places, covered 1/110^th of the world,

 so  you imagine how at twenty-something,

you would pick up a bunch of flowers and head home?