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 first light, How summer green turns gold at night. He sat till dawn began to break, And from that slumber did awake With nothing but a pinecone kept, Where all the forest’s secrets slept. Yet in his hand, this humble prize Held constellations of th...

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 first light, How summer green turns gold at night. He sat till dawn began to break, And from that slumber did awake With nothing but a pinecone kept, Where all the forest’s secrets slept. Yet in his hand, this humble prize Held constellations of th...