Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam,

An ancient oak recalls a dream—

Of whispered tales through rustling leaves,

And promises the forest weaves.

A traveler paused in twilight’s hue,

To tie a ribbon, fresh and blue.

“May sorrows fade with setting sun,”

She murmured as the day was done.

The wind carried her gentle plea

Through valleys wide and over sea,

Where mountains echo back the sound

Of hopes upon this holy ground.

Now when the pines begin to sing,

Remember what the years may bring—

Not just the footprints left behind,

But dreams upon the breezes twined.