Singing The Glory For Me

Singing my glory for me

P K Routray

Adjacent to my study room

touching its sliding window frame

stands a mango tree

eighteen years back planted by me,

the small sapling has grown

to full matured tree

laden now with raw mangoes.

Since many years and during mango season

a cuckoo sings unseen from its thick foliage

with its sweet tone throughout the day,

ten feet from my ears away

paling my computer tunes stopping its say.

Right from the days of mango buds

adding to its sweet fragrance,

buzzing bees keep me captivated

over shadowing competing modern gadgets.

From trillions of mango buds

waning now to a few hundred raw mangoes

ravaged by storm, birds, insects and many a rodent

without any complaints and without murmur

speak the magnanimity of the tree.

Five months every year

cuckoo, blooming mango tree

give me enchanting sight and sound,

besides its sweet mangoes at the end,

sour but tasty mangoes in younger age,

all  sing the glory of my small Endeavour

that  the tree I planted and it I did nurture.