Age and Experience

The gnarled tree reaches out seeking the blessed light,

its limbs wizened and withered with its age unspoken,

and it can see in the next yard the next batch of young ones,

planted as harbingers of the future that looks more certain.

And yet each year, the tree gives up its fruit for the picking,

berries ripe red and in the early morning dew, glistening,

even as the new plants take root and rise proud and straight,

and soak up all the attention of the men like sponges swelling.

As they cluck regarding the fall in yield of the older trees,

the trees themselves stand and think of that they witnessed,

the whites as they came and went and the others that passed,

the traditions that had changed and the waves of cultures.

And wonder what is of greater value to the man that plants,

the quantity of berries they give out each year unfailingly,

or the legacy that each of them bore, the endless summers

and winters that like rings of honour that they each wore.

While the tree pondered on the reasons for his existence,

a sudden swich precedes the thwack of the blade that bites,

deep into its trunk and cuts it’s very life out, a dark scythe,

that puts a swift ruthless end to its proud existence in a trice.

The Firefly

A speck of wandering yellow paints a eye catching streak,

in the dark hued multi layered palette of the still night,

as the firefly wanders around in seemingly random patterns,

that whisper life into those minute patches that it touches.

A magic wand of winking light that travels freely where it wills,

that weaves a unique pattern that lights up the heavy heart,

pulling the rabbit of hope and joy out of the hat of abject despair,

leaving a lightness of mind that was not possible ‘ere it passed.

As it starts its unceasing routine each hot humid evening,

winking its way through each brush and bough tirelessly,

shining on like a beacon into the shadowy depths of the forest,

a mirage that is there one second and disappears the next.

A neon trail that paints your mind’s eye in psychedelic light,

a dotted line that seemingly connects your wandering thoughts,

a honey guide that leads a parched soul to a river of ambrosia,

the firefly unthinkingly winks its way into the depths of your soul.

Until finally the solitary seeking light is joined by another similar,

and a ballet of luminescence plays itself out on a dark stage,

as the firefly finds the mate that it untiringly shone its beacon for,

 shaming the cynicism that cloaks the life around this heliograph.

Return to Life

It is a frozen tableau that frames one’s vision, who dares,

a lake nestled within a protective circle of bristly trees,

it’s surface a cold layer of ice inches deep, still and opaque,

protecting the water beneath from prying unwanted eyes.

The ice holding all life in the lake within its embrace,

nurtured within its depths cold and still as the air outside,

the mist that rises from its surface in the break of dawn,

the only sign that it does exist below the cold armor.

The pine trees with their needles pricking any visitor,

while the tree in its dormancy waits out the winter cold,

the brambles’ thorns cutting deep into skin to deter advances,

as they try to make the lake an invincible impregnable fortress.

The milieu plays itself out as the winter runs its frigid course,

the bushes and trees gradually cloaked in the white of snow,

as the lake seeks to disappear and pretend not to even exist,

reclusive and withdrawn, almost antisocial, brooding in isolation.

Till one day the chickadee starts whistling in merry celebration,

heralding the onset of the warm winds of spring that bring life,

and healing to the bower, warming the ice out of its frozen veins,

thawing the snow till green peeks from underneath the white blanket.

The chain mail of ice develops a chink as the sun’s rays warm,

the cockles of the lake’s frozen heart and the weed rises timid,

venturing out into the first signs of the oncoming life of spring,

as the lake itself lets its waters venture out to breathe in life.

As the days pass, the blanket of white creeps back in sad defeat,

and the lake, emboldened by its successful return, returns to vigor,

clear and glistening in the sunshine that now bathes the bower,

bringing it back to the glorious abandon that its life is and should be.