The breadfruit and banana trees offer generous shade,
in the heat of the midday sun, on an island away, away
from all I’ve known, and I see darkened pandanus leaves
on roofs thatched against the steaming drenching rain,
as chickens run free to rummage among the copious trees.

The plants are this place as breath: each stem, each root,
each leaf green, each flower in this Paradise has its place,
its purpose as medicine, shelter, food and sign,
as the spiritual and the practical become one,
for the Garden was not lost but here and now is found.

The villagers indigenous share their intimacies:
How coconut palm yields both drink and fruit,
and fiber, oil, and thatch—nothing deprived
of meaning or use in this place of give and take,
where the Chief allowed me to enter so I could remember.

She names each plant exact as sacred guide,
and though she is young her knowledge is replete:
How each leaf becomes a basket woven for myriad use,
and coconut shells are bowls to serve the feast from gardens,
as community gathers to share in nature’s not forbidden fruit.

At home I purchase packaged what I’ll never know:
the living tree it came from, knowing hands that shaped its form,
the nurturing earth that feeds the healing root and the tender fruit,
all connections broken by stainless factory lines,
for I have been driven from the Garden I now feel.

Or is this just an ideal, a dream, a wish?

 

20/6/2025