Summer. I was lying there, just lying spread eagled under a healthy mango tree. Summer mangoes. Smacking lips. Lips emoting on the sight of mangoes. Like cherubs on a christmas tree, the ripe succulent mangoes clung to its bearer. I stretched to grab the yield and to perform the honor of cutting its umbilical cord. My body stretched, my attire stretched, my muscles stretched, my cells stretched, it was one giant act of stretching. Unforgiving rays of the sun blinded my objective, but my fingers felt its way through the vines, until my palm rested on it. I tightened my grasp and perhaps the tree tightened it's. Iam the mango's usurper and the tree was showing its act of defiance. A tug of war ensued, between survival and procreation, between love and love. Significant is the consequence, and not the action. Crack. Snap. The twang of success. The tree yielded its yield, a gaping void in its place. Victory tasted sweeter than the mango.
Summer has moved on. It's Spring. The harbinger of growth. The sun has been tamed, the wind is gentler. The chirping birds return to stir the hornet's nest. The mango tree blossoms, and like an infectious fever, the neighboring trees blossoms. The bees get to work, the animals replenish their appetite. All the time I was watching, just watching, lying under the mango tree spread eagled. We are all paradigms of nature's discipline. Free will is just a society word. Woe is he who doesn’t respect its discipline. I watched the mango tree bear tufts of flowers, looking progressively beautiful day after day. I watched it sheltering its dwellers, vagrants for life. I tuned my body mind and soul to be in resonance with the harmonics of the orchard. I coexisted, living or not. The dayspring dew deterged my being. Peace.
Thunder, Lightening, Rain. The sky opened up.
The downpour falls on the orchard, the leaves rustles all at once, like popcorns being synchronously crunched just after intermission. All things animate retreat to their confines. The frogs croak, the insects tweedle, the orchard becomes an orchestra. It now wears a wet, deserted look of a careworn tapestry. Charred mushroom like clouds hung over the trees. I stayed, just stayed under the tree, facing the ravages of the weather. The climate of the rain is difficult to adjudge. It could be happiness, it could be sadness. What mood it wore, I do not know. It rained like hell and I supposed my death will be in a watery grave. But the mango tree protected me, bearing the brunt of the water attack itself. Days passed as it continued to rain, leaving a trail of reeking swamps, bulbous mushrooms. And then it stopped. It just stopped. Rain is the most tangible season and suddenly I felt all lonely. And the mango tree felt the same way.
Cotton wads drifted its way across the leaves. Snow. Autumn. The mango tree quivered, the leaves fell to the ground when it did. The tree is stripped of its adornments. The cycle of life and death always keeps rolling, one never outrunning the other. A white blanket got spread over the orchard, bringing along with it an eerie silence. A silence so cacophonous that it started pulling strings in my heart, making me heave, sigh and insecure. How am I going to sustain in this phase? The dwellers of the tree leaves it in quest of a more habitable place. Now I am a cast away, no longer the tree protects me. It's as if it is trying to act like the windsock of my life. It nourished me during summer, it made me happy at spring. It protected me during the rains and now it stands battered and bruised at Autumn. I have to make my way from here. It's time to move on.

A year has passed in my work life. And I have seen all these seasons.

[Ref: Alzeonz]