Mango Tree

There used to stand a mango tree,
Taller than I was with my hands raised.
It had a twisted trunk,
Roundabout branches-
I spent seven years sitting in its arms.

Every March,
The leaves would revive into the green,
Inflorescence of a colour I couldn't quite put my finger on,
Faithful need,
I used to be able to breathe,
at times of and without belief.

May soon it would be,
Mangoes golden and green,
Pierced into sunlight by squirrels dancing around,
Crows cackling at my frivolous confessions addressed to the polka dots of shade and light,
I used to pick some unripened fruits up-
Only to be caught by the scary man in a white vest,
Sprinting to the back of our apartment complex-
Its narrowly laid pathways inhabited by insects and unloved flora.

That used to be when I was nine.
I moved away at twelve into a better neighborhood,
The shower heads here aren't broken,
And there is a mall two streets away;
Although summer doesn't visit anymore,
And I spend my nights thinking about universities and other prospects.

I heard today,
They were cutting the tree down
to make space for a future project.