The Old Tree

In the bleak midwinter, stands an old tree,
The cruelty of the night, but it’s not so free.
All the different parts, but they all act as one,
As the spent old tree waits for its moment in the sun.
The brown’s starting to crack & the green’s turned white,
But the roots hold it high & the leaves know how to fight.
Emerald stones in the snow, the scars of the battle,
Its head touches sky, not the time to settle.
Life at its feet and life on every hand,
It really isn’t over until you decide it’s the end.

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