The lush pine tree was easy to spot,
it reached higher than the rest and,
when searching for something familiar,
in a foreign place, it seemed that
our tree on a mountain was as good as it would get.

Three years we spent watching it flourish
its deep green needles endured the brutal winter,
the blossoming spring, the warm summer, and the cool fall.
Through all those long years of my childhood,
our tree on a mountain never did let the needles fall.

Up on the hill, above our quaint town, our tree stayed
strong, surrounded by leafy family members it thrived.
It provided comfort to them and gave hospitality
and kindness to those who rested beneath its bows,
did our tree on a mountain.

The pine tree was something to grasp,
something to find comfort within.
The sight of our tree would lift the corners of
my mouth and bring to me a feeling of warmth.
Our tree on a mountain felt like home.