Branches twist like ink on page, A silent script, an ancient stage. Each curve, a story yet untold, A fragile dance in winter’s cold. The sky, a canvas vast and white, Where shadows draw their fleeting flight. In barren grace, the trees remain, A quiet strength through loss and pain. They whisper truths in lines so stark, A fleeting spark in nature’s arc. Though seasons change, their roots hold fast, A timeless echo of the past.