The Old Man Out Ther

 majestic and huge,
 breathes life all through
 looks a little pale 

when I see him 
in the morning.

Why does he look forlorn?
 casting his eyes downward
 remaining still and sullen
some what a grief,  
or a disappointment 
 runs undercurrent.

Ay! oldie, what is the matter?
 I go near him touch his broad 
shoulders, hold his hands
 with compassion, he shows 
no move, Seeing into his eyes.
 I decipher a sadness.

The old man who stands
is none other than my 
 big Neem Tree,  my friend
 with whom I exchange 
ideas, interact, share 
both joy and sorrow.

Exhausted and feeling 
not alright, withstanding 
the continuous downpour
the gigantic tree appears dull
perhaps afflicted by a viral 
unknown to his fraternity.