Trees Like Me. Poem by Fay Slimm

If a tree could be me, and I the tree,
it would be fun to feel
wet droplets race,
after rain, down my body,
trickle freely
through deep clefts
between my hairy toes, lace
my roots with earthy mineral water,
which then,
sucked up through cells
in roughened trunk
for distribution everywhere,
is wisely brought
into my branchy tops,
and greedy drunk
by all my green-veined leaves,
like filtered wine.

Distilled from deep beneath the ground,
ambrosial, nectared,
sun-powered juice,
oozing life, refined by upward climb,
which, assisted by osmosis,
finds its way into my cells,
energises all of me,
helps me breathe out oxygen
which humans need for life,
and gives me use.

Yet trees like me
are dying through pollution.
What happens then,
when all the trees are gone?
Life on earth
will become a travesty.
A parody, which will be worthless.
The trees and I agree,
may that never be.