My neighbor had decided to chop the Krishnachura tree.

He is right, of course; the tree is over 20 years old

huge, sprawling

and spreading over the jagged road

like a giant umbrella.

It’s clearly a danger

tilting to the side of the house —

some feeble wind

my neighbor said could uproot it.

 

Father bed-ridden, lay motionless looking out the window,

gazed at the fireworks, his head on the pillow —

might have seemed like forever to him

who used to stomp around the neighborhood;

watched that tree full of grey birds

chirping,

chattering

flitting here and there

and the other-worldly blazing petals

rhythmically waving against the wind.

 

My neighbor, true to his word,

brought an ax and felled the tree at its stump

 

He was right, of course.

 

The shoot came back the following year,

its clusters are unflinchingly parading their

bursts of rebellious leaves.

Albeit, where there was a canopy of flames

there’s now just a handful

here and there.

One strand in particular

desperately reaching out to the window

with a fist full of orange flames

 

where he was

waiting patiently for its return.