It stands, grey, bare, stark against the cold grey sky. Cracks in the bark streak across its trunk. Its spindly sticks reach into the empty air. It twists and turns in a mangled mess, this is not a tree, it is a dead pile of sticks.
It is stripped of what we think makes a tree look beautiful, stripped of bright color, rustling leaves, stripped of its soft gentleness. It stands there, the heart of the tree exposed to critical eyes. Then, a gentle snow slips through the sky, and silently collects on the tree. The branches,what one would once call generically ugly, now hold a gentle beauty. The snow creates a soft blanket over the wood, collecting deeper layers closer to its heart.
The mangled pile of sticks become a beacon of beauty.