Is star-apple season again.
Milky gel slide from me spoon and full me mouth with soft, jelly-sweetness.
If I had a piece o’ land, I would build a small house, tall and high on posts, and on the border of the land, one tree I know I must grow is a star-apple tree.
Even when star-apple ain’t in season, the tree would shelter me as I sit underneath on a bench, reading books and making notes.
When I ain’t reading and scribbling, I gon teach poor li’l chil’ren to read and write in the shade of the star-apple tree.
In the afternoon heat, when villages nap, and at nights when people settling down to sleep, I gon listen to the fusic of the leaves. You might call it rustle, but I hear semi-demi quavers and quivers.
When them leaves grow old and fall down, I ain’t gon throw them out with disrespect. I gon use them to cover weeds in me garden so I ain’t have to use no murdering poison.