Beneath the moon’s soft silver glow, Two ancient pines begin to show A wisdom older than the stone That rests where roots have deeply grown. They speak of winds that traveled far, Of watching every shooting star, Of seasons turning year by year, Of quiet joy and silent fear. One tells a tale of winter’s chill, When ice adorned the lonely hill; The other laughs with spring’s warm rain That brought new life to field and plain. Their branches sway with shared delight, Guardians of the peaceful n...
