A Centennial Maple Tree

I often visited this forest, making acquaintance with a centennial maple tree; there I conversed eloquently... as if I were talking to a trusted friend. I went back yesterday around nine to admire its shimmering green foilage, and discovered it was cut down to a stump... before crashing and breaking the brenches of birch and pine, as black ooze bleeded, fuxed and bubbled under its cracked bark. And wondering what causes its fall, I searched for a cause by examining its trunk... leading to its rotten roots detached from loose soil; was it too old to withstand a fierce Autumn's storm? Or did a violent torrent add to its toil? Unfortunately, nothing I do or say will comfort it, its death has came too suddenly and violently, taking down many beeches and firs beneath it; now, a wide space above it has let in sunlight... taking away the cool shade that sheltered me. I grieve for the anguish and helplessness that it felt, not having been there to embrace it... as soon as it plunged to the untroubled ground below; ah, if that tempest had never come, I wouldn't be weeping and be overcome by sorrow!