Bough

Beneath the canopy’s soft, leafy sigh,
A lone bough stretches, brave and high,
Its twigs like fingers clutch the sky,
Whispering tales as breezes drift‑by.

In autumn’s hush it dons a crown
Of amber, rust, and russet brown,
Each leaf a fleeting, golden frown
That falls to earth, then melts to ground.

When winter strips its verdant dress,
The bough stands stark, yet loves to bless
The silent wood with quietness,
A patient promise of rebirth’s caress.

So raise a toast to nature’s arm,
The humble bough that weathers storm,
In every season, calm or warm,
It holds the world within its form.