Lonely Pine

In the shadow of winter, beneath its piles of fur, its green coat against the stark white of the season's bounty, lies the trunk which seems like only a memory hidden under the branches of the lonely pine.
 
Roots dive into the earth as if seeking shelter from the cold, while the snow closes in on the clearing where winter has not yet conquered the land, as the lonely pine grows on solitude, alone, yet taller than all else, its tip like a beacon in the sky, announcing, "I'm here! Don't forget!" 
 
As the darkness grows, the moonlight shimmers, casting the lonely pine's silhouette on the hill where it has taken root, like a monster rearing on hind legs. 
 
And me, insignificant, I am watching through my window, wondering how something so magnificent could ever topple and fall, though standing tall and strong in the moment.
 
Would it die all alone, die a lonely pine, and be forgotten, I ask the stars, twinkling from the sky, but they do not answer me.
 
And so I look to the ground and remember that beneath the snow, beneath the ground, there are roots, connecting, communicating — and realize that maybe the lonely pine is not so lonely after all.
 
And would it be forgotten once it's gone? And, again, I come to a realization — though this towering pine will someday topple and fall, from its death comes life, and from the earth where it once grew will grow another, a tiny little pine, and I know that it will never be lonely.