Posted by: Pucadyil | February 3, 2010

Time Machine

The old tree in the garden, sentient time machine
bids me to sit in its lap, cool, dark green
and sends me on journeys to the vast
treasure house of memories from the past

the early sightings were quite random
though with practice, I could sieve them
by skipping past events of sadness
into happy ones from the age of innocence

the tree enjoyed the travels as much as I did.
As I step into the garden, beckon me it would
with its gentle sway of branches to come and sit
under the cool shade and make a visit

the tree sheds its leaves as if in mourning
spreading a light yellow carpet every morning,
my petulant gardener groans at the sight
of the pattern made by the wind in the night

with time, the images lose their coherence
Sometimes there would be a long silence,
broken only by the murmur of the leaves,
displeased as it were, by this insolence

winter comes, I sit under the tree, troubled
by a sense of absence, unconsoled,
while the leaves tremble caressed by the breeze
and the garden silent, accepting the loss


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