Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream. Of whispered tales through rustling boughs, Of winter’s hush and summer’s vows. A traveler paused in twilight’s glow, To hear what only pines would know. Of lovers’ promises made true, Of friendships old and skies of blue. The wind now carries stories past, Through needled branches holding fast. Each needle holds a memory deep, Guardian of secrets forests keep. No written word, no carved design, Just nature’s living, brea...
