The tree is a greater artist
Than any man or woman.
Could ever hope to be,
For whereas we sit and strain
Over our words and phrases,
Shaping and revising,
Writing and rewriting,
Ever conscious and ever
Apprehensive of the affects
Which they may bestow
Upon our readers, and
What they mean to us;
The tree simply exists, and
Without judgment, effort
Intention, or pretension
It creates countless patterns of
Incomparable beauty
With the veins of its leaves  and
The grains of its wood that
Even a Shakespeare or Goethe
Could only ever attempt
To describe, however
Brilliantly they may have,
In their tomes.