All I can see is a tree.

I would not take it too lightly for its roots are deeply carved into my bed.
A pillow full of your leaves and my arms your branches.
Not even the sharpest of axes can cut this madness.
It was a cold autumn cried our sun and fruit.
The arms lay bear and the trunk grew pale.  
I am the fewest of shadows.
The dawn has awakened a distant chill and I am once again running through an arrowless path.

All I can see is a tree.