The Tree's Song

Like the evening sparrows perched on a branch

you used to sit proud on your father’s shoulder.

See--Now you carry his oxygen tanks, his hospital tabs

with chronic fears of caving in.

-

An early onset, the doctors set the clock

the short arm walking backward blindfolded

towards the clanking of coins--Listen

as they plunge through the slit

of the crimson-red earthen pot, he bought at the village fair

to teach you the art of saving.

-

You said you didn’t need it for you had grown, you had a red handbag

yet he forced you to accept the gift which you did with a lacklustre resentment

inserting tokens of memories since,

until the pot has weighed dense.

See--Now you can’t seem to break it.

-

Tears amass but you give it weight

bodies cremate, ashes scatter

the winds carries them -- Listen

like that arduous walk back from the funeral

the day we fell in love, witnessing the evening sparrows

in the twilight hours, shapeshifting

from bird to branch to branch to bird

as their chirps turned into the Tree’s song.