The Mother and the Mango Sun

 

The sun, a molten coin, descends,

Painting heaven in ember’s burning ends.

A mother squirrel, her russet fur agleam,

Ascends the mango ;alive within the dream.

Her little one, a shadow soft and small,

Clings to her back, hearing nature’s call.

No spoken word, no lecture of the mind-

Only the pulse of life she leaves behind:

The rustle of leaves, a whispered rhyme,

The shifting light, the quiet flow of time.

They do not claim the orchard wild and wide,

Nor fence the branches where sweet fruits reside.

They simply taste, with instinct sharp and true,

The gifts that rise from sunlight, earth, and dew.

In gentle nibbling, a truth profound they find-

A lesson etched in every creature’s mind:

Life is not ownership, nor holding tight,

But borrowing each dawn, and sharing light.

A passing-on, a river’s quiet flow,

From seed to fruit, and where the breezes blow.

The mother stores no glittering golden prize,

But wisdom’s gleam within her knowing eyes:

How to exist; not win the endless fray,

How to embrace the beauty of the day.

And the child learns with senses pure and keen-

Not from cold pages, but the living green.

With scent of mango drifting on the breeze,

And mother’s warmth, a shelter in the trees.

O humankind, with towers rising high,

And roads that scar the earth beneath the sky-

Forget not, in grand design you weave,

The ancient truths the humble woods still grieve:

We are but creatures small upon this sphere,

Eating from the same earth we hold so dear.

Learning our way through time’s unfolding maze,

Guided by instinct through life’s softened haze.

Let love become your deepest, truest lore,

Let nature be your teacher evermore.

And let this living be a shared, bright song-

Not a fierce battle of possession wrong,

But a celebration, boundless, wild, and free-

Of simply being, for eternity.