A Crooked Tree

I like this common, crooked tree. 
It’s already poetry. 
Doesn’t need a thing from me. 
It shows and tells us,
Everything. 
But writers make words,I guess,
Because we cannot bend,
And rise,
And bloom,
And die inside the fire,
Of a family making s’mores. 

Still, for us, storytellers all,
The sparks fly up,
And bends will come,
And sadness seeps,
Into all our songs. 
Until both we and trees,
And Everything,
Are finally free,
And born into,
The True New World.