The summer pine forest,
riddled with green and brown needles,
waves wildly in the trade winds.
My footsteps fall silent,
lost in the hush of the earth.
Light weaves through the green,
needles hanging soft from ancient limbs,
while brown needles rest in peace below,
a carpet of memory on the forest floor.
The wind sings through the branches,
a calming whoosh, a whispered song.
I hear poetry in its breath,
see art brushed across the colors,
statues rising from rooted dreams.
The music of the wind surrounds me,
a symphony spun from needles and sky,
a dance of silence and sound,
where every gust is a verse,
and every shadow, a dream.