|A HAMMOCK UNDER MANGO TREES|
Summers shimmer at the back of my mind.
Over to the redeemed days at 9, I come back to find again the mysteries of my childhood mirth.
The leafy arms of the fruit trees fan me to sleep at the close of the day and gently rouses me up at the threshold of another sunshine, laden with new hopes in its pockets.
If not for Pam of Writing Apples of Gold and Diane of An Encouraging Word,
I would have shut down those parts, parceled with the gloomy ones. Then I would never have the courage to pen down my voice or put fingers to keys and tell my stories in this blog.
Trees of the poem were planted by the Creator upon Eden's fertile grounds. They can be food for our tables, wood for houses or for shades on summer days.
The green foliage, like a mother with leafy arms, embraces me and wraps me in its shady fold.
Skirting around them with songs of praise, are my feathery friends, as they herald the first rays, sending one stretching up arms in praise and in celebration of a day full of new mercies.
On tiptoe, I ambled slowly along the sleeping hall, to the waiting giants surrounding our rural shack. On one limb hangs a hammock that stands as a silent witness to a young heart that shares their freedom to reach up the sky and span dreams.
Always and always, wishing the proverbial witch will forever banish into a cloud of smoke, never again to return,
and leave the princes and princesses in their castle to thrive in the land of ever after, and grow a court of little crown heirs.
Engrossed deeply into the pages of faraway lands, least aware was I of the chorus line dancing to the breezy tunes, adding shivers to the rapturous scenes of nobility and chivalry.
Soon it is time for breakfast at the Beast castle. Mrs. Potts with the help of Little Chip, is tinkering around the table, preparing breakfast for Belle and Beast. Chinks of cutlery and China send chimes into my ears.
As the music rose to crescendo, I hear the call from Mrs. Potts, growing closer and louder. But it is not Belle's name I hear being called. It is, "Lolita, where are you? Come to breakfast now!" It is my Momma's musical voice.
Slowly, I rise to her beacon. Breakfast is ready and I have to fly back to Real Land and fill my signalling tummy. "Time for breakfast, Mrs. Potts, Little Chip, I promise to come back later before the twilight calls."
I make a hasty salute to my green canopied friends, hesitant to leave the shade. But I need to come home to my family who are anxiously awaiting for the absentee. Dry leaves rustle underneath, providing crispy notes to my departing skips.
Mrs. Mango and Mr. Tamarind shimmers a leafy goodbye at my receding back.
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer time wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately live with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
By: Joyce Kilmer
I rejoice over the workmanship of our God. All creation rejoices and declares His glory.
Revelations 5:13 (NLT)
And then I heard every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and in the sea. They sang: "Blessing and honor and glory and power belong to the one sitting on the throne and to the Lamb forever and ever."
I’m joining Michelle today for Graceful Summer, and you will find more ways to spend summers with.