I gaze out upon the wintry scene
of tall, twisted trees with their barren boughs,
Still as a graveyard, silent and serene
-Quiet, save the songs of the birds they house.
A gentle breeze now makes the branches sway,
Sweeping the threadbare autumn leaves along.
Bereft of color and tattered, they play,
Dancing to a chickadee's cheery song.
Yet, in the bleakness of the winter day,
Upon the bent, barren branches I spy
Little buds beginning to make their way,
As the sun shines bright in the cloudless sky.
'Tis here, 'midst winter's bleak and barren cold,
In budding beauty, spring's coming's foretold.