On Mango Road (an adaptation of 'Blackberrying' by Sylvia Plath)

Nobody in the road, and nothing, nothing but mangoes,

Mangoes on both sides, though on the middle mainly,

A mango carpet, glistening under the Caribbean sun,

Stretched out far, in a yellowish-orange color palette. 

Mangoes big as my calf muscles, and silent as stones

Rocks in the road, fat

With yellowish juices. These they slush on my hands.

I had expected a more robust attitude; they must overlook me.

They make a thick mush, smelling like turpentine.

Overhead go the parrots in green, raucous flocks—

Bits of tiny freckles doting in a cloudless sky.

Theirs is the only sound, shouting, shouting.

I do not think the rain will come today.

The pompous, green mountains are standing, as if pride possessed them.

I come to a bunch of mangoes so ripe it is a bunch of worms,

Squirming their pale bellies in and out of the juicy pulp.

The pulpy-feast of the mangoes has fattened them; they live in paradise.

Soon enough, the mango carpet comes to an end.

The only thing down the road is the lake.

From above the mountain the wind swoops down,

Smothering me with a eurythmic burst of scented air caressing my face.

This mountain is so green and sweet to have existed alone.

I follow the Taino trail carved long ago.  A bit of walk brings me

To the lake, and the lake is aqua-green

That looks so serene, serene in a secluded space

Of green and golden light, and a breeze stirring and stirring

Like fingers the lonely lake.