There is, no doubt, a scientific explanation for this intricacy. There always is, isn't there? However, I prefer Ludwig Wittgenstein: "It is not how things are in the world that is mystical, but that it exists." Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (1921) (translated by D. F. Pears and B. F. McGuinness), Proposition 6.44.
Or, less gnomically, John Ruskin: "If human life be cast among trees at all, the love borne to them is a sure test of its purity." Modern Painters, Volume V (1860), Chapter 1, Section 4.
David Chatterton, "Devon Scene" (1942)
To be a giant and keep quiet about it,
To stay in one's own place;
To stand for the constant presence of process
And always to seem the same;
To be steady as a rock and always trembling,
Having the hard appearance of death
With the soft, fluent nature of growth,
One's Being deceptively armored,
One's Becoming deceptively vulnerable;
To be so tough, and take the light so well,
Freely providing forbidden knowledge
Of so many things about heaven and earth
For which we should otherwise have no word --
Poems or people are rarely so lovely,
And even when they have great qualities
They tend to tell you rather than exemplify
What they believe themselves to be about,
While from the moving silence of trees,
Whether in storm or calm, in leaf and naked,
Night or day, we draw conclusions of our own,
Sustaining and unnoticed as our breath,
And perilous also -- though there has never been
A critical tree -- about the nature of things.
Howard Nemerov, Mirrors and Windows (1958).
"Poems or people are rarely so lovely" (line 14) is an allusion to the opening lines of Joyce Kilmer's "Trees": "I think that I shall never see/A poem lovely as a tree."
Francis Dodd, "Spring in the Suburbs" (1925)