We are the fruit of global warming,
our stomata respire;
see-oh-two travels,
twists around the xylem toward the sunlight-

gasps;

Oh not yet,
oxygen releases; Earth sighs-
in-out-in-out; in
our perfectly perfect atmosphere.

We grow so-
so tall,
envied by the seeping sycamores,
so tall.

Bitter waves,
violent winds,
deliver our moisture fertile-
sunlight illuminates our chlorophyll;
acidic beads waltz upon our leaves.

Then when we,
queens of the pacific mist,
crown,
we cease;
not to exist;
burdened by the bubbles, which
leak holes in a duodecillion straws, which
sever our aitch-two-oh;
we cannot grow.

We cannot grow.

Ice cubes melt in plastic glasses;
Unleaded inflates, deflates in faultless unity;
We bleed sticky tears-
and you make syrup.

We are the fruit of global warming;
Our stoma retain aitch-two-oh;
forgotten berries of stoma enclosed,
Oh and we,
we cannot let out
your oxygen.