every bird and butterfly
bakes in this heat
a swelter that can
smelt even the strongest
skin to asphalt
can stop even the deepest
breath in its tracks
seeking shade to
no avail
yet I feel something
for these trees
and every gnarled
limb extended down, down
subservient to the
sun and rain,
so easily desiccated
for the means of production.
life wasted
and uprooted
and burned
is not ironic at all
because irony implies
lacking intention
and this slow but sure
death is all but
accidental.