Silk-cotton Tree
In the old days, spirits of good
children lived there, waiting
to be born. When the sun shone,
gnarled boughs darkened heads of women
whose period kept returning. They knew
the tree would welcome them
while night after night, their husbands
thrust blindly, for children proved
a man male and important. As women
bore straining weights above,
they held tiny, invisible bodies
to their breast. Sang silent lullabies.
Down the lane, the tree was patient.
It strode briskly into orange dawn.
It sweltered at noon, bowed
by the burden of limp foliage. As evening's breeze
sprang up, the canopy was seen, distinctly,
nodding to the moon, the stars.
(Previously published by Famous Reportter)
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