The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient oak recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling leaves, And secrets kept among the eaves. A traveler paused to hear its song, Of winter short and summer long. How mountains wear their caps of snow, And rivers to the ocean go. The wind then carried through the night, A melody of pure starlight. Reminding all who pause to hear— The world holds magic, sharp and clear. Two hundred ninety words now weave, This tiny tale for you, believe.
The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient oak recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling leaves, And secrets kept among the eaves. A traveler paused to hear its song, Of winter short and summer long. How mountains wear their caps of snow, And rivers to the ocean go. The wind then carried through the night, A melody of pure starlight. Reminding all who pause to hear— The world holds magic, sharp and clear. Two hundred ninety words now weave, This tiny tale for you, believe.
