The Lonely Cashew Tree

Like those antique mango trees in the yard,

Thou art decrepit, thy limbs stiff-rough

As the coarsest example could be—

The askew trunk dehydrated like a sheet of dried leather,

Like an aged man with arthritis limping his way off.

But, when then, thy limbs strong with lush green foliages,

The heart-shaped ones glistened through timely transpiration,

Adorning thee with an air of urbanity and vanity.

And the mouth-watering fruits laden at the other times,

Green dull to crimson tinted with yellowish thin strips,

Thy true glamour like the essence of thy existence

That tantalized us, the hungry novices, into desperate leaps,

The anxiety obsessed leaps and pelting to get one plucked

At the cost of getting caught by the sturdy aged one,

Who was like stationed for such thieving, us,

Who was the caretaker of the simple shrine by thou.

And now, in retrospect, wistfully I evoke thee

Next by the simple shrine that had nourished my thoughts

As you had nourished my imaginations—

Now a true calling I can hear to do something for thee,

A word of remembrance as not to be ungrateful

That I am not. Could I be the only one hearing thy call?

With the maturity of my mind and intellect,

Though suffered much thru discriminating flurries,

I find a moment now for thee, a healing drop it’s.

So healing thy memories with the simple shrine,

So special thou art ever to be cherished,

A bridge that connects to the moments innocent

To the formative years, so needy for now,

The struggling entity to feel at ease for a moment.