No tree is ever truly dead,
If spring returns, if warmth is spread.
In frozen lands where silence sleeps,
A whisper stirs, the cold recedes.

Barren branches, gnarled and worn,
Once stood lifeless, lost, forlorn.
Yet through the frost, a bloom appears,
A ghost of petals, soft and clear.

Drifting light on icebound bark,
A quiet pulse, a glowing spark.
Hope takes root where none have seen,
A fragile dance in white and green.

The northern winds may howl and roam,
Yet life still finds its way back home.
For even wood once deemed as dead,
Can bloom again when spring is spread.