Fitted snug o’er the ageless trunk, ever-young beneath time’s rings,
Pitted bark a woody blanket, wrapt round the stalk of sylvan slumber,
Guarding ‘gainst the bitter cold following the dusk towards autumn’s end,
While, head rested upon moonlight’s tender pillow, the tree begins to dream.

Nightmares of axes and termites and rot,
Memories of thirst-slaking rains, rich earth, and warm sunbeams,
Fantasies of laughing fruit and dancing roots and singing soil,
As only a tree could ever dream.

Nostalgia for the shadows of elder trees once gone before,
Visions of aurorae, sun showers, and shooting stars,
Hope of lasting harmony, unassailable arboreal peace,
As only a tree could ever dream.