Wet season approaches, new shoots soon turn green,
the Boab awakes from a peaceful Dry-season dream.
Droplets land on its branches, a breeze cools its trunk.
No other great tree, boasts such uniqueness or spunk.
Blackened is its bark, from man’s cane-grass firestorm,
Its branch forms a smile, as new baby Boabs are born.
There’s a local who’s resting, beneath its afternoon shade.
Natives struggle, while the life of a Boab appears made.
A storm signals the wet, as a flower sprouts into bloom.
Such beauty in the desert, is eye-candy for the moon.
Ornate flowers bear fruit, where proud nuts need not die,
a Tribal artist carves a story, about a snake and dragon fly.