Trees

It was a hot hot noon,
Even big big trees sweated.
They are light, yet much heavier than gravity.
I can see them here,
plenty on their fingers, arms, back and neck.
A gust of naughty wind passed by, once in a while,
Pull those awaiting leaves down the ground,
From tired hands which had been carrying them for too long.
A lot each time.
They were sweating, weren't they ?

Trees lose part of its body,
But they are not upset, aren't they ?
Or they are, I don't know.
They can not speak.
They can only be interpreted,
By others, by me.

What can I do for them, I wonder ?
Great great thought vanishes after a split of time,
Left behind by busy head of uneasy life.