I went to buy guavas, fresh and fragrant
from hands of those who plucked their orchard trees,
I watched grey twisted branches yield their offering,
felt humid sunlight sieved by guava leaves.
We sail all night from rain drenched Dhaka city,
dark water bore us South to Bengal bay,
we flowed to flooded lands of cyclone regions
where hand-raised soil keeps roots out of harm’s way.
I watched the pickers pick gold-ripening guavas,
boats filled with seasons scented fresh delight,
follow them to busy floating markets,
with weathered traders, smell and taste at last.