My home is beside the road.
Tall and stately, proud of my name, White Pine Tree.
Birds have made their homes with me, finding space and safety in my branches.
Sweet sounds of the wind, in every season have whispered through my pine needles while my cones of intricate beauty still cling to me tenaciously like a mother holding on to her child.
Many people have sat beneath in my shade and delighted in my beauty and felt the cool evening breezes.
My days are numbered now. I am dying.
Yes, poems are written by men.
Only God was my designer and He gave me my beauty.