You are but leafless branches now,
sharp against the silvered sky.
No rustle in the wind, no burst of color—
just the silence of what remains.

The wind doesn’t seek permission;
it tugs and gnaws,
yet you do not complain.
Instead, you stand,
gripping the earth with quiet resolve.

Your roots—deep, hidden, patient—
sip at streams that no one sees.
Or hears.
The earth is frozen now, ice-hardened,
but still, you take what is given.

And in this starkness, you are beautiful:
each limb, a line of praise,
each knotted branch,
a testament to the storms endured.

Isn’t this what faith looks like?
Not the bright song of spring
or the warm hum of summer,
but the stillness of waiting.

You do not rush the thaw.
You do not envy the evergreens.
You know this season is not the end,
just a pause before the buds return,
before the world remembers what you are.

Teach me, then, to stand as you do—
bare but unbroken,
silent but faithful—
Trusting in the promise of spring unseen,
Resting in the hands of the Eternal Gardener.