Unimpressed onlookers glance and sneer, As 'half dead' tree stands, oh so near. Trafalgar Square's spectre of cheer, Falling short of festive air, I fear.
Threadbare spruces invade each town, Like misfit clowns with drooping frown. Critics' words do squarely pound, Mocking nature's gems, long renowned.
Ridicule sparks, a blaze ignites, At once, our spirits feel the smite. But should we judge by mere eyesight, Or seek beauty beyond the blight?
Nature's hand is not defined, By how it pleases humankind. The flaws we see may soon unwind, Revealing treasures intertwined.
In this season of giving and grace, Let's not cast judgment in this space. Embrace imperfections we trace, And find the spirit that's misplaced.
No comments:
Post a Comment