vaseline altar

Where the Pines Lean Over the Quiet

Beneath the hush of swaying pine,

white stones lie still in patient line,

as if the earth, in solemn grace,

has cradled time in this small place.

No names are read, no voices stir,

just breeze and branch and cedar whirr.

The sun, in soft and slanting light,

paints shadows into morning’s rite.

Here memory wears a silent veil,

with petals red and hearts grown pale.

Yet peace, like breath in open air,

weaves love through loss with gentle care.

For every stone once bore a name,

a story told in wind and flame—

now resting deep, yet rising still,