June.

This tree, once rich with honey
once strong by nature
once beautiful by wind and bursts of laughter
has sunken with the sun.
It's leaves, once lush with dew
now cloud earth's ground with flakey amber
with dusty color.
And everlasting dull
that succumbed the tree.
It's limbs extend outward
to maybe graze the blue sky with the tips of it's fingers...
They're bare. Unable to thrive.
And in the middle of the heated day
that surrounds it on this morn
haunts every hope of an oncoming birth.
For it's hot
and humid
and sticky with dry laughter
yet it's bloom never arives
amidst the sun of June.