Deeper poetry for the more advanced swimmer

Nature Something (Honorarily named by: Che)

Do you know the mountain's song,
Can you, will you, sing along?
Do you hear the river bend,
The rushing and the flow?
Out here where the wild run,
The wicked can not grow.
Out here where the wild are,
A crooked tree may grow.
Out here is from here on out,
The place I call my home.
I will be a crooked tree,
Yet have no wicked branch.
I may be a stark straight tree,
From a certain glance.
And if you do not mind my twists,
Or my lack of straight up height,
For you I'd be the perfect tree,
To spend a somber night.
Climb upon my branches,
Go as high as you might dare,
And should you start to fall,
The bushes grow right there.
The bushes have no brambles,
They do not need them here,
Their full soft leaves will catch you,
I'm sure you'll be alright,
If you dare to try again,
My limbs will still hold tight.
Here I am,
A crooked tree,
Yet no evil in sight.
Perhaps the free have learned something,
That the contained can't seem to find.
Those trees that grow in paper groves,
Perhaps may grow up tall,
They may not have a blemish,
And their wood is oh so fine,
But wicked trees can grow tall too,
Blend in right in plain sight.
They fool you well,
As their looks delight,
And should you ever look inside?
Perhaps you'll find that worms have dug their own way in,
That fungus grows with poison spores,
To kill the other trees.
I hope that maybe you might see,
Your safest bet does lie with me.
Though I am a crooked tree,
My looks are less than kind,
And in the night I have been know,
To scare a traveler blind.
But I am not a wicked tree,
My branches will not snap,
And after every storm my trunk and bows still stand.