The Maple tree, standing tall and erect, was the abode and playground of a squirrel family. Watching the tree and the lively action that happened on its branches from my apartment window, was joyful, refreshing, reassuring. I saw the squirrels build a cosy nest and soon the young ones joined the family. Life for me the beholder; and the squirrels could not have been more blissful.
Then the season changed. First came Fall and then Winter. Everything changed. The denouement was tragic and agonising, leaving me shattered and helpless.
Was it the unending dance of nature’s cycle, an impersonal event? Then why did it trouble me so deeply?
Outside my window, stood the Maple Tree,
Once lush and vibrant, a majestic sight to see.
Its dark green foliage, thick and grand,
Now stands alone, longing for a joyful land.
Its branches, once adorned with abundant life,
A magnificent canopy that banished all strife.
Colours of yellow, orange, red, and brown,
And a touch of enchanting purple, floating down.
In the midst of its branches, a nest was built,
Small and cosy, where warmth and love were spilt.
Two precious babies, soft and cuddly,
Bringing joy to their mother, her heart all bubbly.
But as days grew colder, nights turning frigid,
The wind blew bitter, their world became rigid.
The nest stripped bare, foliage disappeared,
Protection scarce, their lives now feared.
And one fateful night, tragedy struck hard,
An avalanche of snow, leaving them scarred.
Frozen, filled with fright, they vanished in a blur,
Leaving the Maple Tree alone, their future unsure
Yet, unbeknownst to the grieving tree’s heart,
A new year would bring a fresh start.
A new tree would sprout, a new nest would form,
An eternal cycle, like a circle, in its own norm.
No beginning, no end, no defined line,
Just a continuous dance of nature’s design.
The tree, the nest, the squirrel’s tale may repeat,
But each chapter unique, with its own rhythm and beat.
scribo ad LX 