Yellowing palms set against
the clear blue sky.
Changing from Nile green to chartreuse
as their ailments progress.
Is it the sickly air they breathe?
Is it an imported parasite?
Is it polluted water?
Or, is it the insane weather pattern?
That is something
only the palms know.
But do they tell?
Never, for they are not physicians!
Can you hear their sighs?
Which flutter softly in the wind.
Caught up in the atmosphere,
softly tinkling their sad song.
'Help us, lest we die,'
So sayeth the palms.
'Hear our plea,'
Is their refrain.
'Come to our aid,'
Whisper the dying.
'Heal us!'
Mournfully sighed.
Listen to their pleas,
take away their pain.
© 2005 by Rosemary Winters Tracey
