It hasn't got a face.

You look at the strong body of a trunk: you look above you into the matted body-hair of twigs and boughs: you see the soft green tips.

But there are no eyes to look into, you can't meet its gaze.

You keep on looking at it in part and parcel.
It's no good looking at a tree, to know it.

The only thing is to sit among the roots and nestle against its strong trunk, and not bother.
That's how I write all about these planes and plexuses, between the toes of a tree, forgetting myself against the great ankle of the trunk.