The branch deserted by the fallen leaves
Is naked now beneath a winter sky.
Iced over with the chill of season’s freeze,
It lives though splash of colors fade and die.
Some doubt the worth of this now barren limb,
What purpose for it when the bloom is gone?
The dull would dare to sever it from stem;
Such minds, not axes, need a whetting stone.
What flagging faith can’t outlast a season;
What pallid vision can’t foresee the spring?
If we abide the slight of sense and reason,
Where would the wintering bird sit to sing?
Though skies are dark and winter’s season long
A barren branch gives home to vibrant song.