The Tree

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The Tree

Poem — An Invocation To The Master #371

The dusty win of the seed in its tendril
From soil that is its womb and tomb both,
A prelude to its future desires that will
Aim for an oak’s height, a banyan’s girth.

So dreams every tree for branches many,
For an abundance of rich hued flowers,
For fruits of bright bold savours aplenty
And deep roots to weather all storms.

Gambling with fates in every seed
For life of its brood and its own,
Battling unebbing time’s flood and
Reluctant benevolence of a faraway sun.

Home to avian thoughts that wing the air,
A shaded relief to travelling minstrels,
To every wary lover a secluded lair
And a soother of human fevers.

And then the heavens spoke somber,
“Wither flowers that with colours mislead,
To what end fruits that cure brief hunger
Or wide branches signalling foolish pride,

Wither this earth sap that is thy pith
When to heaven streams thou must reach?
Eschew all thy becoming’s wealth,
Await then the future’s glorious pitch.”

Overcome with piety the tree did shed 
Its fruit and flower and branches too,
Now with battered bark the trunk stood
Awaiting the downpour of waters true.

A withered stump is all that remains of me,
A gasping reminder of an erstwhile tree to Thee.