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By: Yogesh Patel

About The Poem

The Poem

It is not a fruit.
But it has fallen off the tree with a stone.
Just because it has fallen off the tree
it is categorised as a fruit.
For days, no one bothered.
The rumour is moths ate all leaves.
The trees mutated as the viruses do!
These latest nuts have plagued the grounds I walk on.
Squirrels cannot classify the pits for their need.
Despairing, they all huddle up on roads quiet
in the pandemic.
The conference like all others ends in disagreements.
They all agreed to ignore the rare pits
as nature’s bizarre idea!
Though they must be all happy
having had the chance to read their papers without Zoom.
They returned to their brushwood
in search of routine conkers like all academics
waiting to see what happens to the odd harvest.
With squirrels deserting the roads,
I feel safe now from rabies.
Though, not from the roads overrun with the excess crop.
All politics played, the council removed them.
The arborists found the treatment, sprayed the trees, and killed the lab moths.
In the world of conkers, it is now easy for me
to come and see you.
But as before,
I will only text you.

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