soft grumbles

Where is the guava tree of my youth?
I used to climb it with bare feet
my arms clutching its coarse trunk
while I searched for a fruit.
I could tell when one was ripe for the picking.

I remember the small tree house
my father built with his strong hands.
It was where I could see the river flow east,
where I shoot bouncing pebbles
as the day retired.
I could tell when a boat
was about to set sail.

Where is the bench where I sat
with the girl who gave me my first kiss?
We used to sit together,
and spend countless hours
just watching the moon. The girl who I
always ran short of metaphors.

I was told she got married when I went astray.
It was a secret pact I had with my fraternity gone awry.
She had a son who had lost his mother while
he was set to see the world.
I long for her tiny face, her long, lamp black hair
that swayed with the wind. Her tight lips
reddened by the lollipop we shared
that made it a very sweet kiss.

A bank now stands where the tree
once was. People come and they go
doing their own business. Nothing to do with me.
No traces of my little house
no girl who waits patiently for me.

I have been trapped within the pages
of a book I should have closed.
The time is ripe for me to move on.
This boat is set to go out to sea.

rolly