The trees fall,
As the leaves do.
Yet none of the trees ever seem to have met their due.

The leaves fall of age,
But the trees don’t do the same.
As we cut them down for personal gain.

The trees offer us life,
Apples and air.

Yet I think to myself in despair,
That no matter how long we wait,
the trees will never be fully their own.

We write books,
Books,
Books.
Poems and songs,
On the friends of our world.
The ones who truly belong.

We are on this planet as guests,
Yet despite our best,
we are always hurting them.

And for what?
So we can sing about the trees,
And dance among the leaves.

But by the time we’re done,
They’ll all be gone.

-By Josephine Writes