The branch droops low
Heavy with Gulmohurs
Their reds bursting
In fiery passion
The old woman
Passes by
Stooped in age
Burnt in grey
The koels sing
Songs of mangoes
As they invade
Summer days
The old man
Twitches and turns
Blinks and drools
Spitting gibberish
A leaf dies
Even as one births
And another yellows
Srishti-Sthithi-Laya
anonymous sadhaka 
My neighbor across the street has a Gulmohur tree. It turns red once a year for a brief time and is so beautiful. I enjoyed your poem. Reminds me that the universe goes on and this embodiment is just a blip.
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Thanks Michael. It’s flowering season for them now and the trees are a riot. As always, I watch the march of seasons in week sized portions through the changing foliage. I enjoyed it as a runner but somehow feel more attuned now as a passive watcher from my little balcony.
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