Hope

I started a new journey with a seed cupped gently in my palm-             
an intention, not yet named, only felt,              
a whisper in the soil of self,              
longing to root, to rise, to rest.

A space where hibiscus opens like a song at sunrise,                
the Banyan stands not just as a tree,                 
but as an elder, holding the sky.                 
Everything alive, everything teaching.

Nature taught us first principles of living without speaking,                
Gaia, mother, moved through us-                
not in words, but in wind and worm,                 
the scent of the earth,                 
the peace lily blooming unnoticed,                
there it was: open, simple, enough.

In the process of connecting with nature,                 
I meet my own realities,                
Fingers sunk in mud, I forget the shoulds,                 
felt life in compost, in crumble, in cycles.                 
Witnessing new born kittens-                
raw, tender and in its own rhythm,                
reminds that birth doesn’t rush,                
why do we?

World is how we perceive it, they say,                
how the stone isn’t dead,                 
but alive and breathing in another form,                 
asking us to dig beyond the told,                 
to see its potential unfold...

Slowly... we’re unlearning, relearning,                
letting the brain dance with the body,                
with the earth,                
with the unknown.                
In the forest of thought, I found                 
questions wilder than answers...

Education that made us memorize,                
but never feel.                
A system that pruned our wildness,                
but never asked if we bloomed.                
Who were we before the bell rang? before we were assigned to grades and batches? before we were asked to fit in given boxes? 

Here we are gently tracing our roots, long buried deep,                
Through stories our ancestors still keep.                
We peel back, layer by layer,                
reclaiming roots buried under centuries of noise.                
We walk differently,                
not forward, but inward...

As systems wove themselves into webs—                 
not linear, but spiraled,                 
like a spider weaves                
worlds on silver strings...                
Its web: not chaos, but complexity,                
threading systems into practice...

As I looked at a fallen 'dead' tree after rains,                
it crackled a language that's ancient-                
one before maps, borders, and binaries.                
A Gulmohar flame in my chest is alive,                 
red and burning and passionate...

To be or not to be? I question again and again and again,                
holding on to the fragile branch called HOPE...

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Poem Shared by Neha Jain, Teach for Nature Fellow, New Delhi