My humble tree

The tree whistles and blows its leaves in the wind like a ferocious wild snowstorm. Its calm, wrinkled face, peaceful and happy.  My hands roll down its face like tears from its eyes, I feel its big lumpy nose and its smooth finger-like leaves.
When the wind washes over the tree it sways sideways, like it is dancing. I climb the tree and watch as its leaves swiftly swim through the wind like a slippery eel.  Its tall arms stretch strenuously into the sky.  
The tree calls, but all I hear is the creaking of its old cracked limbs.  It relaxes its wrinkled face and rests its tired eyes as it bathes in sunlight. 
I lay by the tree and rest until the stars rise above us sparkling like the fresh dew on spider  webs.   The shimmering lake flows past the tree winding through the swaying grass, leading me back to my home.
When I wake up, it is dark and cold. I peer out my bedroom window and a single tear slides down my face. I watch as the chainsaw slices through the tree like it were bread.  It’s devouring roar spitting dust, engulfing the tree in darkness.  When the dust clears all that is left is the sorrowful stump of the murdered tree. 
I wish I could go back to the place I found peace. The place where the water dripped slowly, lapping the grass like a puppy, the place where the humble tree sat.