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An icy breeze runs briskly through my branches.
Branches once adorned with luscious green needles
Now charcoal black and broken, growth given no chances.
I shudder and reminisce when my branches stood like steeples, 
When I thrived in a coat of green, not a barren limb.
I was warm enough on my own, then. 

Mighty eagles found solace in my awning,
I was such a thing of beauty, I was desirable. 
Little children climbed upon me and found my presence calming
They’d rest their heads against me, always quite adorable. 
Why couldn’t  have I been content with dependable eagles?
Why did I find it exciting, the danger and warmth of fire?

How it glowed, like a beacon, drawing my attention.
Sister trees cried of how it burned, how it killed. 
I was ignorantly mesmerized, they watched with apprehension. 
With its overwhelming warmth I longed to be filled.
I should have listened to my experienced kin.
I was warm enough on my own, then. 

I called out to its embers, in my rich coat of green.
Soon enough, into my unscathed grove it came.
I assumed it was my virtue that the fire had seen,
But, truth be told, it only sought to set ablaze my frame.
The warmth was thrilling, at first touch
It held me so gently, I could hardly feel its clutch.

Then, spreading through my branches and up my back,
I felt the first twinges of pain, confusion, fear.
Flames distorted my coat from green to brown to black. 
To my horror it fell to my feet. I wished that from me the fire would veer. 
It burned me, scorched me, defiled me. 
I loathed the way I had longed for it to touch me. 

Cold, barren, and ashamed I stood.
My frame, hanging, broken and abused.
It's humiliating that only then I understood,
Discontent with what you have will only leave you bruised. 
Now I must sit, blackened in my glen
Remembering how warm I was, back then.
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