Bare trees clothed in snow.

Bare trees clothed in snow feel like quiet revelations.

Stripped of leaves, they stand without pretense — every scar, every bend, every season of survival visible. And yet, it is in this exposed state that they seem most dignified. Snow does not hide their bareness; it honors it, tracing each branch in white, turning vulnerability into something luminous.

I am forever amazed at how they endure the cold without retreat, rooted in frozen ground, holding sky with empty hands. They do not mourn what has fallen away. They wait. Patient, uncomplaining, certain in a way only living things that trust time can be.

Looking at them, I am reminded that there is a kind of beauty that arrives only after shedding — a grace that belongs not to fullness, but to resilience. Even in stillness, even in apparent lifelessness, they are quietly preparing for return.