The body has begun to turn a little senile,

but the heart—metaphorically speaking—

remains stubbornly the same.

The old friends are slowly phasing out of my zone.

Some have moved away, some have grown distant,

and some have simply disappeared from the scene.

So, starved of company,

I took a leisurely stroll through the backyard.

And there they were.

Plants of every description lined my path—

some familiar faces, some newcomers;

some bearing fruit, some flaunting flowers,

and some doing nothing more ambitious

than vegetating in glorious green.

Exotic and indigenous,

young and old,

they seemed to have formed a little community

without ever needing a WhatsApp group.

Suddenly, a strange thought occurred to me.

Why shouldn’t I pause at each plant?

Why not look at it properly,

reflect for a moment,

say hello,

perhaps even have a little conversation?

I briefly considered singing to them.

That idea, however, I rejected

for the greater good of all concerned—

especially the neighbours,

and the useful pests around the plants

who deserve some peace too.

As I walked, memories began sprouting.

I remembered the little mango plant

I had brought home from the neighbourhood nursery

many years ago.

I can still picture him then—

small, hopeful, almost insignificant.

And look at him now.

He has grown into adolescence,

tall and confident,

spreading himself around as though

he owns the backyard.

I look at him with an odd mixture

of admiration and pride,

almost as though he were a younger brother

I had somehow lost the opportunity to have.

Then there is the red rose.

It leans precariously from its delicate stem

across the common wall,

and whenever I pass,

it seems to look at me rather surreptitiously.

Perhaps it mistakes me for a young stud.

After all, I was wearing jeans

and a rather trendy T-shirt that day.

Poor thing.

Still, I don’t blame it.

The rose cannot possibly know

that the young man it may imagine

has long since retired from that department.

Nor do I remember the pickup lines

I must have used when I first persuaded

the nursery keeper to let me take it home.

There are several other flowers around the little garden—

each one a small feast for the eye.

I suddenly felt that I had been rather negligent.

I had been passing them every day

without really meeting them.

Next time I walk around the garden,

I think I shall take along

my dog-eared notebook of love poems.

I shall read to them.

Not merely for old times’ sake.

Perhaps I shall read to fool Nature—

both the Nature within me

and the Nature outside me—

into believing that I am still

in some kind of reproductive form.

Not yet a discarded piece of merchandise,

stamped EXPIRED,

and quietly moved to the shelf

marked no longer useful to the world.

Perhaps that is why

I want to keep talking to the plants.

They don’t ask my age.

They don’t notice my slower steps.

They don’t care how many birthdays

have accumulated behind me.

They only seem to say:

You are here.

So am I.

Let us grow a little longer.

And perhaps Nature,

with its mysterious sense of humour,

keeps the mobile around for a little longer—
not because it has forgotten

to switch it off,

but because there is still

a call waiting.

Like hope.