Acacia Lanuginopylla

Wooly Wattle, a flower nearly gone,
a species nearly diminished.
Fallen, unobserved on the floor.
Falling, like unvalued men in war, useless now.
Never to stand again, thinning faster than old men's hair,
overly refined. Thinner and thinner,
soon to be none. Yellow, their flowers bloom.
But not much longer, as they face near certain doom.
Formerly green, but turned now brown. Former flooders of forest floors,
but no longer are there forests to flood.
I am the woolly wattle, and I am nearly gone.
Forests have been my home, but these forests are no more.
My friends are thinning out, overly refined,
as they die off, nothing can take their place.
Should I die now, we shall be soon no more.
No longer I know others of my kind.
There is some, but there is not many,
similar to forests, as humans chop them down.
'It's fine' they say as they chop. 'We are nearly gone' our small voices cry out,
swallowed by the ignorance of humankind.