A writer sits at the pine table, trying to doodle a sketch,
the image of the very fable, that would some riches fetch.
Cold winds are on the window, the hearth is kindling warm.
A few crumbled papers to throw, assures the fire no harm.
The wood that was set on fire, keeps the writer sane.
But let me sing the wood's lyre, the big fat tree's bane.
The big fat tree of the wood, the tree that never moved.
A squirrel came in search of food, whose guilt never proved.
Tickling and pulling the twig, solacing in the moist heart.
The squirrel loved the tangy fig, and thence never apart.
But then came a fateful day, the fate's axe stuck the trunk.
Reality had to have its way, woods were carried by the hunk.
The squirrel ran fast and swift, until the truck was lost.
And thence came no tangy gift, but squirrel wouldn't exhaust.
In every way the squirrel knew, tried to pour life into stump.
Drops of water at roots it threw, but never was seen a hump.
The squirrel thence carved art, in memory of the old pal.
The friends were now worlds apart, not humans to text or call.
The woods burnt in the hearth, feel cozy o dear writer.
The squirrel wails in the darth, let's make your day brighter.
May this fire not bring hopeful rays, may your art fetch love.
May it help you find solace, for the tree isn't alive now.
Become a writer, great writer, don't forget the wood that burnt.
Make our lives one bit lighter, help us live though we weren't.