Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor, What time and wind have laid before. A traveler paused to hear its song, Where shadows dance the whole night long. The boughs like wise men bending low, Shared secrets that the west winds know. They spoke of seasons come and gone, Of morning dew and winter’s dawn. How roots hold memories deep and vast, While crown converses with the blast. No moral ends this gentle tale, Just peace that...