Craving all my tenderness,
the lone Portia tree
is waiting to grab it.
Thrusting its wistful
face that strains and brims
through the window bars,
in despair that I might
go elsewhere to seek
the fruit and flowers
it no longer holds,
it will display
the coolness piled high
by its green foliage
and the blanket of darkness
woven by its shade
(though strewn with fine holes).
The garden lizard roams
all over the tree’s body, while
rolling its pearly eyes on me.
The wasps and the lizard
fall asleep on the tree.
Holding twigs in their
beaks, some birds
hover above, looking
for a home.
In spite of so much,
despondent at having failed
to define the direction
of my tenderness, it broods
and broods, singeing
-Rajathi Samsudeen
