For a long time they've stood in place- silently still, wearing a clever face. Twisted fingers reach and cross, delivering goods from under the moss. Comfy homes for gnomes and fairies- a place, perhaps, where you might find cherries. A shadowy shade that whispers stories, secrets about fortunes and tell- tale glories. A bark with no bite, these things of old- stonily sturdy; weather hot or cold. They fall in a circle, turning green, brown, or red, then hide in their sleep- so you'd think they were dead. But alas, there's a few still rooted in magic- to lose them to whimsy would surly be tragic. Remember this rhyme when you're standing below, look up at once, and then you'll know.
What am I referring to?
I gave you a clue!