The Dead Tree

The sentinel stood, a skeletal frame, A silhouette stark, whispered death’s cold name. Branches like bones, clawed at the sky, No leaves to unfurl, just a mournful sigh.

Seasons had turned, a silent ballet, Winter’s white shroud, spring’s verdant display. But the dead tree remained, a haunting sight, A forgotten soul, lost in fading light.

Deep in the earth, a whisper arose, A stubborn ember where life still chose To flicker and fight, a defiant spark, A yearning for sun, a yearning for dark.

With a patient push, a determined heave, A green tendril dared to emerge and believe. A fragile shoot, a promise unfurled, Life clawing its way back into the world.

Slowly it climbed, a warrior bold, Through the weathered bark, a story untold. One leaf at a time, a crown it did weave, The dead tree reborn, a testament to believe.

Now it stands tall, a whisper no more, A testament strong, to life’s endless war. For even in darkness, when hope seems so frail, Life finds a way, a triumphant tale.