Arboreal Witness

Published in the printed issue of ‘Mingled Voices 4’ (Proverse Hong Kong)

Arboreal Witness  

“One Day, One Yard, Bagan Won’t Move.”  —Burmese Proverb  

Your long arms—  

reassuring, maternal,  

draped in the white scales of time,  

welcome me again  

as the sky blushes  

and covers the idle Irrawaddy with a pink film. 

A boat spits out loud crackles  

and marks  

the end of daily tasks.  

The banks are thirsty.  

You, immutable and prosperous— 

silent sentinel of an eternal valley,  

where spare red bricks crumbled  

with the grumbling of the earth’s belly. 

Pinnacles fell from the temples’ roofs 

like Buddhas’ heads severed and stolen— 

or past heroes betrayed by men in uniform, 

who sat down quietly to eat lahpet 

under your weeping canopy.  

Every now and then,  

a bride appears.  

Her eyes, like mine, turn to you,  

wishing to free the memories  

tangled in your branches.  

The train of her white dress bears  

a new fragrance,  

and gently receives  

the dead leaves that you dropped  

while blessing her footsteps.