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 mortal ear to hear the sound Of secrets buried in the ground. Two lovers carved their names right here One hundred years—or maybe near— Their promises in bark impressed, By winds and seasons now caressed. The tree remembers how they wept When promises could not be kept. Now hikers pause to touch the scar That tells of love that traveled far Bey...
