Age-Ing

Colour of oranges 

On my nails

Strawberry on lips

I long for mangoes

From a childhood tongue

Frozen mango pulp

Is heavenly

Till I think 

Of what fruits undergo

Being beaten to a pulp

Kept in sub-zero temperatures

To serve another

In cold, unfamiliar climes

(yesterday, he said

At your age 

You should only think

About teaching 

Power corridors

Are forever lost)

The mango pulp

Is a little like me

Crushed, processed

Freshness lost

Past spring and summer

Meant to serve others

It perhaps laments the loss 

Of its life in orchards

Under the golden sun

Listening to kids’ laughter

Watching their stained lips

Those stains are so unlike

The oranges on my nails

Strawberries on my lip

I pay respect to the mango

Make a warm pudding

Sweetness and fragrance

Pervading my senses

Both of us dwell in the past

Write stories 

Which will never be read

It’s not really sad

Just that 

We are past our prime

Mature, accepting of fate

Not mad…