The Plum Tree
written by: Prabhanjan K. Mishra
I wonder…
if this fruity fragrance in air
wafts from my skin,
its tangy-sweetness tingling,
misting senses,
I wonder….
Not yet a woman, no more a kid,
gingerly stepping over pubescence,
admiring canoes ready
to negotiate my contours, bends;
chart ridges, and fathom pits;
hug gaunt ravines, purring streams.
Eyes roll up if a leaf is shed,
flowering sends thousand messages.
Autumn breeze seems a typhoon,
sweeps me off my feet,
blow away my fig leaf; I howl
at its heartlessness.
But the paradox unveils –
London Bridge is not falling down,
rather parting in the middle
for canoes to pass;
air throbs in anticipation,
adieu to nursery rhymes.
Hesitant plums hiding in foliage,
chewed green, chewed purple;
eyes half-shut, curious, unsure;
the season trickling down the lips,
‘be or not to be’ the plums hesitate
before the ready knife.
- Amrapali’s Siddhartha - July 10, 2021
- The Question - February 20, 2021
- The Plum Tree - March 8, 2020
