This morning, when the earliest of the day’s breezes
Seeped through the minute gaps between my dense branches,
I stirred imperceptibly, careful not to awaken the innumerable lives
That found their homes in me, whose hearts beat in rhythm with mine,
Whose fondness for me meant they wrapped me in a quilt of love –
Their affections—patches of immaculate beauty—stitched together…
With my leaves, both young and old, roots and my flowers and fruits,
Far-reaching branches and my deep-brown trunk, I stood ready –
I, the mango tree, who‘d aged like fine wine,
I, the grand old daughter of my mother, Mother Earth…
I spread my arms wide, to embrace another day –
ordinary or extraordinary, no matter; bright or pallid, no matter.
From years of living and watching all creatures mighty and small,
And absorbing the precious wisdom my mother sends my way
In the sweet scent of moist soil wafting up to my farthest corners,
I’ve learnt of life’s nature between every break of dawn and dawn of dusk:
Births, deaths, arrivals, departures, love, hate, joy, fear,
Of birds, insects, dogs, cats, squirrels, goats, cows, humans.
But chief of all, I’ve grown to understand grief – grief of all kinds
That many breathing souls have confided in me – in eloquent soliloquies,
In brief, stuttered mumblings, in faint whispers, in shrill and loud wails.
Some do it bravely, some tremble, some hold back and then release,
While others struggle and turn away, not saying a word, thinking
What’s the point, talking to a tree. What will it know? And what can it do?
This morning, as I stood upright, I spotted one such, an early visitor –
Sitting atop one of my thickest roots, his forehead bore creases,
Startlingly resembling my own network of far-reaching roots…
But, trust, I saw, didn’t fill his heart. It had place only for grief.
So I merely stood, watching his sad face bearing the shadow of my leaves,
For, only those who confide in me with all the faith in their heart
Will hear my soothing whispers and know me as the Speaking Tree…