Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, And timeless truths it still avows. A traveler paused to hear its song, Where shadows dance the whole night long. The wind-carved grooves on bark so wise, Reflected starlight in his eyes. He learned of seasons come and gone, Of steadfast roots deep laid upon The mountain’s breast through storm and sun, One with the earth since time begun. Now when the western breezes sigh, You’...
