Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine shares whispered dreams. Its needles trace tales on the breeze— Of mountains old and silent seas. A traveler pauses in the night, Hears branches weave forgotten light. One cone drops where no foot has trod, And roots drink memories from the sod. No moral hides in needled verse, Just time’s slow rhyme—the universe In bark and star, both deeply grown, Speaks all we need to feel less alone.
