Doesn’t it ever get old?

To always be green,
to forever grow new
needles and cones,
until the day that
they tumble to the ground
for the last time?

Doesn’t it become
tiresome to stretch
ever towards the sky,
like a living skyscraper
without an architect,
building itself upwards?

Don’t your roots get sore
from centuries of digging
through soil and stone,
and the winds trying
their best to topple
and uproot you?

Or perhaps I am just
a foolish human,
a **** Sapiens
trying to comprehend
the slow, steadfast
and eternal ways
of the growing trees.