Loss

The sublime, serene hillock,
Dotted with the magnificent pine,
The essence of which can't be found elsewhere,
An aura so divine.

The pendent frosty pine needles,
On the towering tree,
Something the human hand can't recreate,
But only his eye perceive.

Its boughs saddled with snow,
Burdened with an external weight,
yet it did not snap or break,
A tale of endurance, narrates.

But one fine morning,
I reached the spot,
Where the towering pine once stood tall
Methought I saw it not

It no longer welcomed me
With its conifer laden arms
I mourned the loss of a smiling friend
Who won me over with his scented charms.

I knew what I had lost,
What others had lost too,
As I imagined my friend in a river afloat,
With the ripples it bobbled and tossed.