Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pinewood tells a dream. Its needles trace on forest floor What time and memory restore. A traveler paused where shadows dance, And felt the weight of years by chance. He heard the breeze through branches sigh Tales of lovers passing by. One thread was gold from summers warm, Another gray from winter’s storm. The pines have kept them all contained— Both joy received and pain sustained. Now he adds his own faint thread To the living tapestry spre...
