Sunscreen, please

Leaves wither under the pounding sun.

Weak as can be, they beg for the flame.

There is not a cave in the

world that would convince them

of this fate. Who wants

to slowly burn?

The Good is

inside,

and the sun is far off, away from here.

How could it know what it feels like to

be a leaf, or an apple,

or even a human being and then

within that how is a sycamore to know a tulip?

The leaves ask to catch flame, and

with silent screams, question

“what have you done

to think that you know me?”