The Moringa Is My Bodhi Tree

Moringa_Tree_powerHouse_Growers

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.

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