The moringa tree wants me to snip its head every time
I run my hand over the shoots.
It rather stays my height so the leaves, flowers and pods
remain within grasp.
I bring every part of the tree to my meal, mulch the soil
with its own waste.
Can I do all these to my memories – nick them so to
garner the light of the sun?
It is easy to catch the smell of despair in the scaled trunk
crumbly like algae in a temple pond.
In secrecy I wrote your name on the bark, watched it grow
into rings of stories.
Each letter faded out, absorbed into the core of the tree
that is ungraspable.
I do not need the aswatha tree to teach me lessons of life.
The moringa does better
by paring me down, shredding clamoring limbs. I shed leaves
to reach for my small voice.