Among the first to fall
Was the branch of the tree they had sheltered under
For an animated smoke
In the blistering rain.
They discussed at length
Over puffs of death
How they would cut down what remained
Of the green,
How they would smoke out the bees,
Saw down the trunks,
And hack the branches and leaves and flowers
And even the youngest buds
Yet to fully blossom.
Then, they said,
They would burn what still stood
Where they stood
To merge with what had fallen.
So the branch took matters in its own hands.
It snapped and fell
With the full fury of all of its leaves
And its nests.
It fell with a snap like thunder,
A weight like Thor,
A precision like an assassin's knife.
They never got to act on their plan
Or finish their smoke
Or even share the lessons they may have learnt.
So I write on their behalf:
Be sure not to need the shelter
Of the homes you would burn.
Not everyone who stands still
But mainly, and most importantly,
Please do understand:
Smoking kills, and that's a fact.