Some people hate the sight of winter trees,
once garbed in green, their beauty long departed.
With every gust of wind they sway,
their leaves fall off and drift away.
No balm in that to heal the broken hearted.
But take on faith that which you cannot see,
and know there's surging life within that tree,
a cornucopia of fare, of fig and berry, peach and pear
of buds and blooms and fine perfumes
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