A thousand years old,
Touched by a thousand hands,
Fingers trailing softly over rough bark.
A thousand feet high,
Home to a thousand birds,
Nests of those and squirrels, gone and here to come.
Grown in peaceful serenity,
Competing for the light of life.
With leaves like rain, with sudden flowers,
With leaves that filter the Sun and dapple the Earth.
Toppled by the killing saws of human hands.