In this land of tropical green,
there is one tree timed to north lands.
Its leaves turn red from deepest green,
and fall as if to season’s plans.
They fall not by mere ones or twos,
but in wild, fluttering masses.
Inside, it gives one the bronzy blues
to starkly feel the year’s passage.
To see sunny-side branches nude,
and know the numbered days still left
for ever-redder multitudes
who suffer time’s — and wind’s — great theft.
No land is so foreign to me
that I can’t see home in a tree.
two live oaks
stretch toward each other —
a faux hug
silver trunks glow warm
in setting sunlight
one tree field,
its canopy echoes
a faint smell —
the secret message of an
in tree time,
the world must unfold in
seasons — not days
in a foggy forest
split oak tree
hollowed by water
a lone tree
sits atop a green hill,
resemble a painting
not a true grove
I see a canopy of trees.
Wind-rolled like undulating seas.
A strange green scene from my balcony.
Seems like such a vast expanse
of trees tossed, locked in a dance.
From sidewalk, they’re of stalwart stance.
But from here they are an ocean to me.
Taken on March 22, 2018 in Cubbon Park, Bangalore.
Taken on February 8, 2018 in Cubbon Park, Bangalore.
Yellow is blooming in Bangalore.