Might Humans Bloom

Do you wonder, ponder even,
that the ghosts of leaves do slumber,
or do they rot and fade away
to the depths of waning day.
For if they think, and hearts they drum,
might their minds write poetry?
What do they say of man's escapades
from the heights of their dear palisades,
we hear whispers and joy, lyrical laughter,
all in the words scrawled on their kin hereafter.
Shall they cry, or mourn, just like Mother we say,
for their brethren that fall in ambiguities way,
they are mirrors of time reflecting season's defiance,
a death that is suiting for their selfless compliance.
So they wither and lie in Mother's sweet embrace
while we walk and dishonor their venerable place.
Yet only few that do notice do so admire their graves,
and through such minds this Earth shall be saved.