An idiom says, I'm hard to see, When one's too focused, On parts of me

Green whispers above, Ancient arms cradle the sky, Roots hold secrets deep.

top a king or queens head the top of a plant a bigger fancier tiara

Upon my skin are stories of old, My insides are all damp and cold, From the dawn of man's first fire, Shelter within has always transpired What am I?

I stand in silence yet speak in rings, I drink from the earth but never from springs. In spring I wake, in autumn I fall, I shelter the weak and outlive us all. My arms reach wide but never embrace, I mark the years on my weathered face. Cut me down and I still remain. In books, in homes, in ships at sea and trains. What am I?