Having stems and branches,
Like thoughts and philosophy,
Growing and taking root,
Harboring life of all sorts,
Insect and bird,
Marsupial and primate,
So many others to name,
We climb them as children,
Play-houses with signs,
That say 'keep girls out',
Poets speak of them,
With admiration and awe,
We chop them down,
For fire and heat and cooking our fare,
We build houses from them instead of within,
We sit on their stumps,
And invoke memories of days we climbed,
And the poets write beautifully about them,
Upon their skins.