The Standing One

The ground lies low,

the fierce wind blows,
Where rotting forks of branches grow.
A maker’s hand gave me my birth,

And raised me high above the earth. Placed far above the nursing care,
And all the blankets blowing there.
Floor upon floor, the layers rise,

To build my path into the skies.
Through all decays and winds blow free,
I am the one you still will see.

What am I
A house