the leaves they break from their tenuos joints
and sway down over the hot black earth
at the hint of a breeze
they dont bend softly
as you walk over them
they crackle and crumble
under your stead
the picket did not save them
them trees that still stand tall
with a little green patch over their heads waiting for rains to fall
the little weeds needed to die
so they say and trees will grow again
so here they are
red
burnt
and standing so tall
