The Ripe Santol Fruits.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

this afternoon we visited
Ms.Pat on her 90th year on earth.
she still has the same eyes,
and face structure, except of course
that she has thinned, and feeling
weak, and could not stand on her own.

she is eating grapes while i take
a close picture of her, trying to
capture what she is from within.
a lively soul, still gleaming with
hope, and never sad about her being
alone in this world.

her small house with glass windows
lies in the hillside, where wild flowers
still bloom. Her big dog sits by the door
beside her wheel chair.

under the santol tree where we gathered
while reminiscing the good times,
the fresh air from the forest keeps on
blowing.

the tree is filled with ripe fruits
and no child has climbed it to gather
what is good to taste.

all the ripe ones, fall freely back
to the ground with no one picking them
and i look at the group of old people
laughing at the wonders of their youth
in a moment where life is lived to the full
setting aside those sleepless nights
when finally all of them goes back to
their lonelyhouses.