Why do I smile when I
Look out that window?
Look yourself; and can you see
What I find so fair?
Ah, I thought not.
'Tis a small bush out there.
Not that one with the
Blossoms, pink and white,
Oh It's a lovely sight, I will
Admit. But I am not concerned
With it; or what I see
Is there. Rather, this smile
For what is not!
The little bare on... to the right!
The one with naught upon it.
No berries, no leaves or Blossoms
E'er appear, it seems,
In any season.

And I truly know that
Is the reason for this smile
When I do see it.
Oh, I am not crazy ,
Neither is my
Little Bush! But for our
Reputations' sakes, I do suppose
I needs must tell you of
Our little secret.
Come again sometime
In winter, when
Yon lovely one has shed
Her regal glory .
All is dead !
Blossoms, berries, leaves, all
Done with and forgotten
For another season.

Look again then
At my little bush; you too
Will smile at what was not!
For in the midst
Of dead decay and rot
Upon white snow,
Against grey sky
Proudly, with her head
Held high, she stands
Just as you see her now.
Reigning, still nude,
But undisputed queen
Of sleeping garden.
While all the others
Until spring, stay late abed,
My little bush stands
Brilliant, like a ruby
On the snow, in winter bark
Of brightest, shiny red!