Now the southern pine recedes
in hushing stir past autumn’s morn,
bends each bough in gratitude
as winter’s rush, in distance, born.
She stands beneath the luscious pine
upon a trail where few have stood,
yet few who have engraced this path
hold history here, within the wood.
As evening sun withdraws,
leaving shadows hazed and long,
the voices from the solitude
tell the tale and sing the song…
Where soldiers passed beneath these trees,
when to the call they raised their heads,
where four years later passed again
returning home, both live and dead.
Here is told the memory
of summer hearts’ escape to love
that manifested romance
beneath the fir and pine above.
Here the whispered story sings
in soulful mourning, life’s despair,
where aging brought the hearse to pass
en route to family plots somewhere.
Here a quiet tune is stretched
for poet’s pause to draw it in,
who by this wood found solace,
who brought it to the page and pen.
For here the path so few have trod
has relished in its history,
by forest musk and dim decay
has carried life’s sweet mystery.
She stands beneath the alpine boughs,
upon this path in silence poised,
witness to the whispered calls
that sing in history’s pains and joys.
As the sun sinks lower
and shadows stretch across the wood,
she gently bows before the pines,
here, where long they’ve stood.
So to home she turns in peace,
grateful for this sweet release,
thankful for the moments there,
small, beneath the southern pines,
engraced within their care.