Birch

In the quiet glade the birch stands pale,
Its silver bark a whispered tale,
Against the sky a slender column,
Rooted deep in earth’s soft loam.

Leaves of green, like tiny coins,
Tremble when the breezy wind joins,
They flutter, sigh, and gently fall,
A carpet gold on mossy wall.

In winter’s hush the trunk does gleam,
A lantern ’mid the frosted dream,
Its branches trace the crystal air,
Etching lace beyond compare.

Oh birch, you teach the heart to sway,
To bend yet not to break away,
In every season, calm or storm,
You stand—serene, graceful, warm.