Winters dead tree, gloomy to life below,
It wants to come back,
So it reaches up to a black sky and with slender fingers.

It let go of its leaves when needed most,
The birds have left it no more substance,
It owns no fruit, the bark cracks as it freezes, it waits.

Not the sun, but a delicate light finds them,
In a blanket of death, and it embraces the earth and melts with the dirt,
And the bird simply finds another tree.