The tree.

The tree

The tree is painted red at dawn and dusk
but at night it is painted silvery
and never fail to show its glory.

Sun peeps on the top of it,
Moon through its boughs.
The leaves sighs when soft wind blows.

The flowers adorn the trees with their hues.
Bees hum lullaby to the buds.
Tree wake up with chirpings of birds.

If winter bite it bitterly.
Spring smears balm on its body.
Summer keeps underneath of it shadowy.