Where the Fir Trees Bow

** Music and Lyrics ** ** The Left Hand Tree ** ------------------------------ Where the Fir Trees Bow ------------------------------ ©TheLeftHandTree https://hyperfollow.com/TheLeftHandTree https://www.youtube.com/@thelefthandtree https://open.spotify.com/album/5oaiSzu1YhunfCJgJ0MIhS Thanks for stopping by and checking out the track. -- Part of my new A Shimmer across the Winter and Christmas Season album. https://suno.com/playlist/86b2a06b-9497-40ce-89bb-8efd7afafb83 === Out into the woods, where snow falls light, whispers of winter paint the night. No wreaths of gold, no tinsel’s glow, just the hymn of earth beneath the snow. This is Christmas, pure and clean, first light waking the frosted green. No gifts wrapped tight, no glittered town, just fir trees bowing where peace is found. The sun, a flame on birch's skin, a quiet world, a breath within. Where the fir trees bow, and silence sings, Christmas rises on nature’s wings. No bright lights, no bustling streets— just the ground beneath and the air we meet. Let the stars above be the only glow, in the place where the fir trees bow low. By the creek’s frozen glass, I see, the mirror of all that’s wild and free. Branches bending, but never break, like the soul under life's quiet ache. No hum of cities, no hurried race, just cedar’s breath in a still embrace. Where the fir trees bow, and silence sings, Christmas rises on nature’s wings. No bright lights, no bustling streets— just the ground beneath and the air we meet. Let the stars above be the only glow, in the place where the fir trees bow low. A raven calls, the morning breaks, icicles drip in time’s slow wake. Stones beneath snow, patient, still— waiting for spring’s gentle will. Here is the gift, unwrapped, unbound, a quiet joy in this sacred ground. Let this be my Christmas, a fire of light, a river that flows unseen by sight. The pine cone holds its secret tight, while the earth whispers, “All is right.” I’ll fall like snow, quiet, free, melting to nourish what’s meant to be. Where the fir trees bow, and silence sings, Christmas rises on nature’s wings. No bright lights, no bustling streets— just the ground beneath and the air we meet. Let the stars above be the only glow, in the place where the fir trees bow low. And if I stand alone in this sacred place, under stars and trees, I’ll find my grace. A hymn of pines whispers soft and free: Be still, just be—this is Christmas to me. (Be still, just be—this is Christmas to me.)