There is a Bakula tree,
right before my home
shelters a thousand birds
and a garden gnome
Its flowers white
star like
when bloom in dozens
lend a lingering fragrance
The ants throng
the enticing smell, can they go wrong?
even in the wee hours, I saw a bee
drunk with honey, rolling in glee
Also a squirrel which scurried
with nuts that it carried
sat on its branches and relished his crunches
it was home to the birds who lived in herds
I woke up each morning
to the flap of their wings
their twitter and chatter
As they discussed important matter
One day below the tree, there was none but me
My Bakula shy as ever, in a nervous quiver
fluttered its leaves
And sent a shower of tiny flowers, at the slightest hint of breeze
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem