White birch sprawled with scars and cracks
roots barely piercing through the ground frozen rock solid
drifts of white powdery snow laying meters thick in stacks
naked twisted branches standing quite squalid

dead to the surface but holding so much potential
come warmth and the sun everything quickly changes
it looks barren but like all things it is sequential
dead frozen husks always has many unread pages

attention rarely payed to that which seems lifeless
fruits not plucked when they're deemed not mature or spoiled
no one spends time waiting for the shade when it's leafless
care shan't be given when it's crooked and coiled

flocking comes birds and those who fruits want to pluck
when rays causes everything to come oh so quickly to life
fall and winter come no one stays to test their luck
who wants to stay when there are times of strife

but perhaps it is suppose to be a cruel theatre
no one wants to stand on the stage of life when there are no light on up there