Dreaming I'm the tree, and someone's sharpening a saw

I'm standing in my old yard but I'm the white oak, the one I lost to wilt. My rings are ticking like a clock and every one of them is a summer I remember. A woman I don't recognize walks up with a handsaw and starts cutting me down, but she's crying the whole time. I wake up before she finishes, thankful and also oddly embarrassed — like I'd eavesdropped on my own funeral.