Shallow waters in the end of August
Spanning across the field, being a menace to everyone that passes by.
I huddle the mud unto surface, hiding myself; and my depth,
yet spreading across, comparing to the span of a lake.
But the sun has scorched half of my waters,
and the remaining drowned into itself:
into the ground, my eventual grave.
Dare to step in? I'll welcome you with a pit.
Care to drain me? I'll gladly concede; before I drown the insects underneath.
Tell the fruit tree about the ordeal;
leave a note tucked in its roots:
I'm heading back home now, I'll come back next year. I'll see you soon!".
I worry about that tree, if the sun was to catch it parched one day,
I won't be seeing it in the coming rains.
You better fortify this last remaining patch of land, where I reside, and rid of grass!
The wind swayed me to catch another glimpse of the tree; it doesn't look so well.
I can't bring myself to come back again.
Spare me from seeing my sole friend fall unto death;
let my promise rot in vain.
When you go to leave my note,
tell the tree that it shouldn't have faith.
It shall make sense of what's then left unsaid.
Let the grass breathe for a day after I'm made to leave;
It's too young to comprehend anything you utter.
Span your hand across a patch if you must,
but let it breathe another day at least,
before sending it too, my way.
You're not responsible for this, I understand the patch had to be drained; it had to be done.
I was birthed on the wrong patch of land.
And at last, no tears would come;
and I won't gaze at the fruit tree as I leave.