Beneath the canopy’s gentle sway,
The birch tree stands, its silver-gray.
A scent so crisp, a winter’s breeze,
Yet it’s not wintergreen you seize.

The tea once brewed by settlers bold,
With bark that healed in stories told.
American tribes knew its worth,
A gift from trees, their earthy hearth.

A drop to soothe, a breath made clear,
Its essence calms what we hold dear.
Oily skin, sore muscles too,
Birch brings relief, its magic true.

To focus minds and still the din,
A diffuser lets its work begin.
With ancient roots, its strength remains,
The birch’s gift, a healer’s claim.

Through every season, tall it stands,
A guardian of the forest lands.
Its essence, pure, a timeless guide,
The birch, a treasure, far and wide.