One may think of this as a continuation of my earlier poem, When the sparrows learned to sing again.
He stands in the way of a King. The gulmohar,
a foot thick, towering-tall, has promised to speak to us today.
Does he want to hear? "Fie," he cries.
"Begone, I would hear no such thing, for
what does the gulmohar know of the mountains, or the sea,
Or the cold that descends unto one in the hills here east."
"The tree is no scholar," I say, "but it is to you that he cries.
Unto you he calls, confesses; unto you does he bring
words of great meditations."
He obliges.
"What is spring to the land of the axe-wielder?"
The gulmohar is enraged. "I spit at your
seasons, the four creations of your masters.
Here, there is only rain, and no rain.
The river is a quiet one, but today,
she cannot but tell her children, the waterfowl, of the Malabari spring.
There are two, one comes and goes,
leaving the laburnums a golden yellow.
The second comes in August.
It is here already; it begs of you to listen.
