When air drenches pores and sticks to skin, Soil waits for tender palms— abuelitas, we plant mango seeds back home. giving life in fingertips and prayer whispers.
Land lots taken for generations. We cycle layers of soil to keep up Before, investments made by ancestors. with dying breaths— we dig deeper
and wait patiently for restoration.
Pitted seeds are stubborn as We cut husks carefully and find offerings, jaded knives slip in sticky hands. for growth. If we tend our tree,
this will last us a lifetime.
Then, one day, its canopy will protect us. Small white flowers inhale sunshine as each summer becomes hotter than before. to exchange our efforts for blossoms.
Our children will feast on the fruit it bears. We’ll cut them in X’s and let nectar with peppers and sea salt. stream down chins and onto t-shirts.
In ten years, it will birth these fruits we seek.
Until then, we must dowse ourselves. The sea breeze will rustle more leaves in patience and give ourselves up to the land. as our mango tree grows with us.
We lay under shade and pray into its roots— we come back to traditions in visions with every inhale, it becomes easier to breathe. and heal the wounds of our history.
We thank the tree for its gifts.
and rebuild in nourishment.
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