I can’t tell you how much you mean to me,
Like the broken, yellow Neem leaf decaying in my backyard.
“Am I just a drying piece of dust-to-be?”, You might wonder.
Yes you are. And you were the tender golden brown that unfurled into a luscious green, foraging the ancient light of the ancestors, feeding the roots and branches and pushing the bud to bloom and help it condense the data of generations into the seed encapsulated in the pulp that feeds birds, and return what humans exhale for themselves to consume, like a duty. And here you are lying, withered of your duties into the palest autumn colour, among hundreds indifferent, yet so unique to kindle these words to sing praise of you. These words meant nothing before they were put together for you.