Where northern winds sing soft and low,
Through mist and moss, the spruces grow.
By rivers wide and swamps so deep,
Their roots in ancient waters keep.

A healer’s touch, a sacred tree,
A gift from earth, wild and free.
For generations, hands have known,
Its soothing touch on skin and bone.

A breath of pine, crisp and bright,
To clear the air, to bring in light.
A drop diffused, the chest expands,
Like forests vast in distant lands.

A quiet strength, a calming balm,
In weary hearts, it whispers calm.
Blended soft with chamomile,
It eases aches and soothes with style.

Its essence lingers, fresh and true,
A cleansing wave, the air renewed.
With frankincense, a sacred pair,
To sharpen focus, scent the air.

Through swamps and hills, it holds its place,
A tree of wisdom, strength, and grace.
From ancient roots to healing hands,
Black spruce endures, where nature stands.