There are trees everywhere, on my shelves.
You could call them books, or leaves.
Photos by me, in Emmanuel College, Cambridge - post infusion
Ada Limón says, ‘It begins with trees’
and although some might argue that
‘it begins with water’, with the first separation
into ‘the waters above and the waters below’
maybe we, in our separation, begin
our ways of seeing with trees.
For example, we never remember
that we are mostly water.
We always forget to drink
in the casual days of abundance -
only when we are parched in the desert,
forced into famine, or praying at Ramadan,
do we remember the sweet
source of our beginnings.
We cut the willow down
because she was rooting
into the walls of our house,
seeking the river.
I think of this most days.
It was an us and her moment
we never foresaw -
not my tree loving mother, nor me.
My mother adapts. She sees
the holly that was hidden
behind the willow
flourishing, freely, now.
I’m still in nostalgic mourning.
The willow was a thousand flutes
singing all day long, like Radha
dancing to Krishna.
Pigeons and doves made love in the
shifting light of a green curtain.
Everything was music and dance
almost all year long.
It’s still now, empty.
My grandmother would have hated it;
Vera loved the willow
as much, or more.
I liked hiding inside her.
She was not just tree,
she was water too.
But being water was her undoing.
She was planted outside a house,
on a human road, between grass and car.
Perhaps her death began
at the moment of her birth?
Did trees begin with us?
No, they began with the sea.
Oh, why do we end tree stories?
Do we?
My shelves are filled with leaves,
and the willow lives inside me.
The kissing and the killing
forever entwined within me.
© Shaista Tayabali, 2025
Art of Radha Krishna by @abhiart (Abhishek Singh)
Poem included on Dverse Poets Open Link night, a community who have been sharing poetry as long as I have had my blog...
