In winter's grasp, the tree stands bare, A silent sentinel, stripped and spare. Its branches reach like fingers, stark and cold, Against the pale sky, a tale untold.
No leaves adorn its limbs, no vibrant hue, Yet beauty lies in its form, resolute and true. A testament to strength, amidst the frosty air, A symbol of endurance, beyond compare.
Each branch, a memory etched in wood, Of seasons past, where life once stood. But now in winter's embrace, it waits serene, For the warmth of spring, to paint the scene.
The frost may kiss its bark with icy breath, Yet within lies the promise of life, not death. For deep within its core, where roots entwine, Lies the hope of rebirth, in nature's design.

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