I suggest we go see home.

time reaches first,
preserves the house—changing it.

my old banyan tree
he’s elephantine, uncompliant.
fleshy overweight branches hurt his back now,
they hurt the floor.

the guava tree
peeps through milky window,
her eyes pained from fruits
wormy.

little basil tree
has grown quite tall
too tall, and wide—fading walls
that drew a house once, on blank sheet of forest.

my ashoka tree
dumps his emerald spades
on my old hall. they rot there
satisfactorily enough for others to join.

thought i’d show her my old home
—once cradle. where is it?
this jungle house,
house jungle? or jungle?