Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares secret dreams. Its needles trace tales on the breeze— Of mountains old and silent seas. A traveler pauses in the shade, To hear the legacy conveyed: “How roots drink time from stones below, How stars ignite the midnight snow.” Two centuries of sun and storm In whispered verses, warm and worn. The wind turns each needled page— A forest’s everlasting sage. (Word count: 68)
