Long ago, in ancient pasts,
Now forgotten, lost in time
I waited, ever patiently
For the bit of dirt that would be mine.

Planted in the heart of Earth
Like a treasure in the clay,
Waiting still when I bring forth
The ending of my resting days.

A sweet green sprout becomes my home,
My roof is now a leaf,
Forever gone are quiet days,
The weather is my chief.

I work so hard and start to grow
Into a good and strong and fine,
Sweetly flourishing, standing tall,
Young sapling, of my own design.

I shelter both above and below,
As time grows old and so do I,
The living life which make my own
As pure as leaves against the sky.

No deeds do I now regret,
No sadness gone away from me,
And in my own hand I write these words,
A poem from a tree.