Your mist dusted branches act like arms
that hang down sparkling
unmoving, causing no harm
Leaves swaying, about to embark
on their journey, embracing the undying wind
Waiting for fall
So they may descend
And their faces may grin
As they make their small
journey down to the end

All kinds of trees,
that emerge from the Earth,
protect and appease
the world and stand for rebirth.
Their branches are wings,
a trunk of gold --a support,
and roots that sink deep,
stand as the king
of the distorted
world that we upkeep

So you see, this tree
that we sit underneath
is a greater beauty than what we may see,
we take for granted that bequeaths
a scenic bloom
of power that gives
us a sense of calm
and hope to a world set for doom
It fights to live,
and reaches out to the sky, with outstretched palm