The heart of the forest,
shriveled and dry,
alone in the world, no more tears to cry.
Against a blue canvas,
the bright vibrant sky,
a calming aura that should make her fly.
But here in this season,
though she often asks why,
the tree can do nothing but sit there and die.
Surrounded by others,
whom her hurt won’t descry,
her pain will summit until she ‘goodbyes’.
But here comes a creature so different than she,
so different than all of the dry dying trees.
He’s vibrant and bright,
full of crimson blood light
that colors her bark though He seems but a mite.
No more is she dead,
but a new fetching sight,
a contrast to boast of this little bird’s light.
Who is this strange bird,
that He gives hope to her,
and colors her lonely dead broken world?
I do hope that He,
in this dry dying woods,
will come visit me and heal what none could.
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