MANGO LEAVES

As I sit on my long, chainsaw-hewn bench
I so carefully constructed beneath this vast
umbrella of Indian mango leaves,
I scanfor my daughters’ carved initials,
done by their clumsy fingers with a rusty nail.
Only indecipherable, random marks
of scratched wood grain remain.
They survived those sun filled days,
finding refuge in this consecrated playground,
within rustic concrete walls,
as the fierce winds
of the winter habagat roared incessantly.
Their tricycle broken down awhile back,
consumed by playful abuse,
as I was.
Now the silence yields itself to futile,
frantic human attempts,
as I idly watch
these unstoppable signs of age thrust
its way through these barren moments
wrenching my daughters away from me.
But I’ll wait under this leafy canopy,
when they come back next Summer.