In the silent watch of trees, winter's touch is a solemn whisper. Snow blankets the earth, a white shroud under a waning sun. Branches reach up like hands in prayer,...
In the silent watch of trees, winter's touch is a solemn whisper. Snow blankets the earth, a white shroud under a waning sun. Branches reach up like hands in prayer, grasping for the last warmth of light that slips through the fingers of the forest, an eternal yearning for the kiss of spring.