A THOUSAND FLUTES

There are trees everywhere, on my shelves. 

You could call them books, or leaves. 

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

Photos by me, in Emmanuel College, Cambridge - post infusion

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...