Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where laughing children once did play Through long forgotten summer days. Its needles murmur tales of old— Of lovers’ vows in courage told, Of whispered secrets on the breeze That rustle through its memory. A lone traveler pauses near, And in its sighing finds a tear For all the years that drift like snow, Yet still the rooted pines will grow. They keep the stories in their rings— The sacred, ordinary things— And guard the...
