Through whose branches, green tinted
Sun rays snatch away the last dregs
Of the divine opiate- sleep;
I had some enmity with it somewhere.
As it stood forlorn against the green
At a cursory glance, I had labeled it
- sterile, barren, woman past her prime.
One night came a fairy with her wand- Summer.
Little buds peeped, little leaves followed
And rather prematurely ( it seemed)
Came the fruits.
Now the little tree stands
Like a brazen little woman
Flaunting her bounties at me.