Poem: the crepe myrtle song

And so it is,
that time of year,
when all the crepes,
shudder with fear.

The poor myrtles,
can’t run or hide,
they can’t build walls,
or stop the tide.

With saws and blades,
the pain does come,
they cry and wail,
as blades do hum.

They seek respite,
and hope for peace,
they seek the day,
when blades do cease.

For you out there,
who hear this song,
listen so well,
and right this wrong.

Do not go out,
and lop the trees,
open your ears,
and hear their pleas.

Prune all the trees,
in the right way,
keep lopping thoughts,
far off at bay.

Please help the trees,
tell all you know,
to lop is wrong,
and filled with woe.

Please help the trees,
to grow so strong,
and not be lopped,
which is so wrong.

Please help the trees,
to bloom so bright,
please help the trees,
and do what’s right.