I sit here in the evenings,
My thoughts flowing wild and free.
They weave themselves into poems
Under the shade of the breadfruit tree.
She knows much more than I do—
The tree is old, much older than me.
Her roots in the depths of the earth;
From the top, I guess she can glimpse the sea.
When the wind blows through her leaves,
They rustle softly, spilling a bean or two,
Telling me stories of the olden times—
Little secrets nobody knew.
“Please remember this lovely evening,”
I told the wise old breadfruit tree.
“To those whom you meet in the days to come,
Tell them that I, too, sat under thee.”