In this ancient forest,
layers of soft moss form a carpet
over generations of long-fallen trees
(they are rarely caressed by sunlight).

In this ancient forest
filled with ancient pines,
the afternoon sun-
poking tendrils of light in-between branches-
reminds all of its penetrating glory.

There is a point,
an equivalence point,
when the sun is only as high as the trees.

This ancient forest
filled with ancient pines
(glowing orange in the late afternoon sun
as if lit from within)
is aching toward that point, when
after a long day under the blazing sun
Lo! they are equals!

Wings flit valiantly
through near-perpetual shade
until
Behold! The soft spongy moss is burning
(burning with the gold of the sun)!

The sun stretches on,
to the equilibrium of twilight,
and, Ah, if only the trees could follow.
But the sun is gone.
And it is missed bitterly,
as it is in winter.

But this ancient forest
of ancient pines
is hardier than most-
and is resigned
to quiet mourning.

It is ancient, after all,
and will survive another night.