He climbs up rhythmically keeping his legs within a ring of rope like his life. Intuition assures the ripeness; life-nut falls down from the tree top. Just a slip will end in all end, but practice rarely slips. Though the ways are hackneyed, he’s honeyed and free under his calluses. Morrows and yesterdays, he never climbs upon. He hugs today, green and yellow like the coconut tree leaves. First published in The Literary Hatchet, US, then reprinted in Nous Magazine, UK, and also in my book, Kanoli Kaleidoscope by punkswritepoemspress, US.