A poem on pollinator decline, ecological memory, and the quiet hope planted in neglected soil. Press enter or click to view image in full size 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 teacher.…