The earth is tired,
I can feel it-
Slumbering in dried grass,
Scratchy like straw on a cat's head,
Wallowing in auburn fatigue.
The insects sense it, too,
Hovering nearer to ground
With each wafting touch of breeze
Which pushes wrinkled leaves closer
To looming autumnal suicide.
Still, there are patches of deviant green,
In a climate that has declared civil war
On itself through crackling heat-
And there's people, so many people,
Not dropping yet like leaves
In colder situations
But riding bikes with pulsing energy,
Yelling vibrant colours
Into dwindling, pastel summer evenings,
Kissing scraped knees and dancing
On concrete in bare feet,
Wiping brows outside cafes and bars,
Or lounging in the lull
Of spluttering sunlight and whistling birds.
Their energy is palpable, close, electric,
The beat of humanity just
Alone or in groups,
Laughing or sighing,
Filling the universe up to the brim
With our colourful garbage
And cluttered emotion.
Sometimes, I wonder why
We still gravitate to nature
So easily and whenever we can.
Then I remember how similar
Our souls are to oceans,
And our brains to tree roots,
And our hearts to mountains.
Maybe sometimes, the tired earth
Needs us a little too.
Written under a tree with tired hands