Outside my window is that tree,
– a mango tree, old and green.
It’s been there since I opened my eyes.
To date it hasn’t failed to bear fruits:
Mangoes sweet as wild honey.
When its leaves rustle, I hear lores of love.
I see a pole star emerge when the branches bend.
The white tiny blooms every spring,
whisper its intoxicating presence;
air around turns holy.
-30-
Copyright©Madras Courier, All Rights Reserved. You may share using our article tools. Please don't cut articles from madrascourier.com and redistribute by email, post to the web, mobile phone or social media.Please send in your feed back and comments to editor@madrascourier.com