Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares secret dreams. Its needles trace tales on the breeze— Of mountain peaks and frozen streams. A traveler rests against its bark, Hearing whispers in the dark: “Seasons change like shifting sand, Yet roots hold firm where memories land.” Through storms and sun, through age and time, It writes its verse in nature’s rhyme. Not with ink, but with steadfast grace— A living poem in this wild place.
