Little tree, I do meet perchance, strolling on a summer day. Your fruit so plentiful, branches loaded, you are a picture of abundance.
But what of these limbs when winter bare? Stark and colorless, no billowing form to shade this ground. Harvest complete, or so it seems.
Ice crystals then your charm against white covered earth. With pride you stand, one more season still.
Thawed and sunned, your buds reappear, like days numbered at the end of life, giving hope.
Sun rises on your wearied, yet still pulsing heart, and the air so fresh, for one more day will test
Wisdom of the vine, you remind. As long as connected, we must keep bearing
fruit ’til harvest.