They say I am a bad bad wood

I am a rare wood
But they say I am a bad wood
I do not bother anyone in the forest
But they say I do not belong

I am accused of being born this way;
Burning from the wrong flames
Setting the wrong woods afire
And making the wrong mycelium connections

They say my heartwood is rotten
And my grain is crooked
They say my growth is weedy
And my pollination an abomination

They accuse my branches of being naked
And my leaves of being serrated
They say my stem pierces the wrong sky
And my roots suck the wrong holes

They say my exhale is pure Carbon dioxide
And that my odor is poisonous
They accuse my tendrils of barking the wrong trees
And my seeds of sprouting in the wrong soil

They say my pollens are unholy
And my pollinators are ungodly
They say my seeds are diseased
And my fruits are bad apples

They say I am a bad bad wood.