Si J'etais un Arbre-an old poem of mine

My legs are buried,
I am stagnant.
My feet and toes soiled.
I feel the grains of soft, brown, moist substance over my skin.
Sometimes small shiny creatures tickle my feet.
They carry many legs and their eyes are of black obsidian.

My skin appears quite dry, but it's merely just a shell.
A piece of armor to protect me from the elements.
From the howling wind and the battering rain.
It's my woolen sweater, my rubber slicker.

My arms are always outstretched.
They do not tire, for they praise the warmth of the sun.
And they reach out to the clouds for their precious rain.
They embrace the small furry long-tailed and the blue-winged.

Out of my fingertips sprout fresh, green and feathery foliage.
And in my hands I hold verdant buds which hide treasure inside.
The treasure in early spring is untouched by the air.
As the months pass, they bloom into streams of color.

In autumn i begin to tire and prepare for rest.
In winter I sleep, although it may seem I am dead.
Then spring will arrive and I thrive and bloom.
In summer I enjoy the sun and the peaceful moon.