The pines lean close with sighs so deep,
they whisper love the winds still keep.
Soft needles brush the star-kissed air,
as if to touch a dream once there.

The owl calls low with tender grace,
a longing song through time and space.
Its golden eyes, so wise, so bright,
search for a love lost to the night.

The crows weave wishes through the sky,
dark-winged prayers that never die.
They gather trinkets, bright and small,
as if love’s weight were not at all.

Pine cones rest in moss’s hold,
wrapped in arms of green and gold.
Mushrooms bloom like lanterns pale,
lighting paths of lovers’ tales.

The river hums in silver streams,
a lullaby for wayward dreams.
The trees still ache, the roots still yearn,
for footsteps that will not return.

And yet, beneath the swaying pine,
where love and loss and fate entwine,
some echoes linger, soft and true;
I loved, I love, and still, I do.