My neighbor had decided to chop the Krishnachura tree.

He is right, of course; the tree is over 20 years old 

huge, sprawling

and spreading over the jagged road 

like a giant umbrella.

It’s clearly a danger

tilting to the side of the house —

some feeble wind

my neighbor said could uproot it. 

Every year, it sent out its bursts of orange blossoms;

blooms and blooms

blooms relentlessly;

threw shooting flames out into the sky

more stunning than fireworks on new year’s eve.

Father bed-ridden, lay motionless looking out the window, 

gazed at the fireworks, his head on the pillow —

might have seemed like forever to him 

who used to stomp around the neighborhood;

watched that tree full of grey birds

chirping, 

chattering

flitting here and there

and the other-worldly blazing petals

rhythmically waving against the wind.

My neighbor, true to his word,

brought an ax and felled the tree at its stump

He was right, of course.

The shoot came back the following year,

its clusters are unflinchingly parading their 

bursts of rebellious leaves.

Albeit, where there was a canopy of flames

there’s now just a handful

here and there.

One strand in particular 

desperately reaching out to the window

with a fistful of orange flames

where he was
waiting patiently for its return.