A glist'ning pure white coat of fallen snow

That covers up the mud in Autumn's wake;

The trees seem dead, in bitter cold, although

'Tis only for Spring's warmth that they await.

And now, they sleep, a season 'reft of work,

A chance to cease their constant toil t'ward growth.

Their duties, in a Winter's dream, do shirk,

And cares forget, save only for an oath:

That after this regenerative rest,

Their snuggle under blankets made of snow,

Their struggles will they take upon their chests

And once again, in Summer, strive to grow.

Sleep well, oh trees, and win back strength again,

For with great growth comes, too, its share of pain.