Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor, What time and wind have written before. A traveler paused to hear its song— A tale of seasons, short and long. Of winter’s hush and spring’s new start, It whispered wisdom to his heart. “Each ring within my trunk holds fast The shadows of the years that passed. Yet every dawn, I grow anew— So too, dear soul, can you.” He left the woods with lighter tread, Carrying the quiet words the pi...
