Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Where time herself briefly allows. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue, To hear what only pines construe. Of mountains old and rivers deep, Secrets the winds in confidence keep. Two hundred years of sun and snow, Witness to all things come and go. Yet standing tall with quiet grace, A living chronicle of this place. The stars above begin to spin, As night’s deep tranquility sets...
