Hugger tree

The poem tree is hugging me, though I think I hugged it first
The poem tree did take its time, and waiting is the worst
The poem tree has leaves of green, of envy or of peace,
The poem tree
is in between
the ceasing and the ceased.
This is the poem tree; these are its limbs
These are its dances; here are its whims
It stills with the breeze
It moves in the still
It grows up with ease
It withers at will
In the end
it all matters
In the end
it doesn't