The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver glow, Two ancient pines begin to show A wisdom older than the stone That rests where roots have gently grown. They speak of winds that traveled far, Of constellations’ silent spar, Of seasons turning like a page In nature’s ever-changing sage. One tells of mountains clad in mist, Of morning sun by dewdrops kissed. The other whispers valley’s song Where hidden streams have flowed along. Their branches weave through time and space, A living tapestry of grace, Remi...
The Whispering Pines
Beneath the moon’s soft silver glow, Two ancient pines begin to show A wisdom older than the stone That rests where roots have gently grown. They speak of winds that traveled far, Of constellations’ silent spar, Of seasons turning like a page In nature’s ever-changing sage. One tells of mountains clad in mist, Of morning sun by dewdrops kissed. The other whispers valley’s song Where hidden streams have flowed along. Their branches weave through time and space, A living tapestry of grace, Remi...
