Often confusing

Anomaly

The perfect tree,
Unmoving unfree.
What a beauty,
They claimed,
Watering it handsomely.
Rotting underneath,
Yet lauded endlessly,
No roots, just hollow reeds,
Petrified anomalies.
Yet did they care, no,
Not at all.
For a beauty was she.
They cut down forests,
To make a housing,
To display this rotting tree.
Day and night parades the praises,
Sung so endlessly,
Till it fell over, gangrenous,
And then foul turned the men at ease.
And so burned the perfect tree,
With a flame so perfectly,
Yet a seed untouched inside,
Escaped, with the evening breeze.
The perfect seed they saw,
From the perfect pile of ash.
They plucked and planted her,
And waited for another year.

Till it came a birch stout,
Unremarkably unproud.
The wait was for naught,
There was none of rot.
A living beauty,
But to them just a tree,
And so the work forgot she,
The imperfect anomaly.