This poem I am writing is about trees,
how they swing and sway in the cool, autumn breeze.
The leaves fall and they tumble onto the ground,
people walking by stomp all around.
Beneath their feet the leaves are crushed,
because people just walked and rushed.
A small, red car drives by the tree,
from the backseat window a girl can see.
She glances at the leaf and couldn't care less,
because she wants to get back to her own mess.
The leaf is now dead, it's pretty unfair,
that poor, poor leaf now full of despair.
Copyright © lily lloyd