What the thing made from

A man is made
Of flesh and blood
Of nerves and bones and water

The very same things
Make his son
As those that make his daughter

A tree is made
Of leaves and sap
Of bark and fruits and berries
It keeps birds nest
On it's branches
And blackbirds eat the cherries

A table is made
Of naked wood
Planed smooth as milk
I wonder
If table ever dream of sun
And wind, and rain and thunder?

And when man takes
His axe and strikes
And sets the sawdust flying
Is it a table being born
Or just a tree that's dying?