Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares whispered dreams. Its branches trace the stars above, While telling tales of timeless love. A traveler rests against its bark, And listens to the forest’s arc. Of mountains old and rivers deep, Secrets the mighty tree will keep. The wind then carries stories far, Beyond the sun and morning star. Each needle holds a memory, Of all it’s heard and come to be. So pause awhile where old trees grow, For they hold more than we can know.
