Ripe mangoes weigh the trees low in March
clustered like rotund aunties sharing gossip and shade.
The community waits, eyes skyward
asking, “When will it fall?”
Children beneath, stones in hand
argue over fruit not yet theirs;
their laughter rises in dusty air
chasing chickens, stirring chants.
An old man hums on his porch,
hands clasped behind him like a general.
He recalls the sun-warmed sweetness,
how each bite melts into memory.
Finally, a mango lands, bouncing in dirt
elbows clash, knees scramble,
and the victor stands, juice dripping
grinning sticky delight.
Under the old tree, timelessness blooms
a fleeting season, sweet and unbound
marked by mangoes, memories,
and laughter melting in the sun.
