Beneath the moon’s soft silver glow, Two ancient pines begin to show A wisdom older than the stone That rests where roots have tightly grown. They speak of winds that traveled far, Of constellations’ silent spar, Of seasons turning like a page In nature’s ever-changing stage. One recalls a poet’s sigh Who watched the same night sky drift by, His brush still waiting for the word That flew off like a winter bird. The other laughs with creaking bough ”Why rush your thoughts? Just notice now— The...

Beneath the moon’s soft silver glow, Two ancient pines begin to show A wisdom older than the stone That rests where roots have tightly grown. They speak of winds that traveled far, Of constellations’ silent spar, Of seasons turning like a page In nature’s ever-changing stage. One recalls a poet’s sigh Who watched the same night sky drift by, His brush still waiting for the word That flew off like a winter bird. The other laughs with creaking bough ”Why rush your thoughts? Just notice now— The...