Beneath the Boughs

Matt Conklin

The moonlit path lay soft and still,

Beneath the yew on the shadowed hill,

Where time wore thin its ancient thread,

And whispers stirred what words had fled.

The brook sang low, its silver tongue,

A hymn of love when the earth was young;

Each pebble kissed by its fleeting grace,

Reflected stars in its embrace.

We stood where silence blooms and grows,

Where frost-kissed branches bend in bows,

And in your eyes, the twilight gleamed,

A fragile world, half-lived, half-dreamed.

The way was dark, but your hand in mine

Made stars align where none would shine.

Each step we took, though rough the tread,

Bound hearts where fear and longing bled.

For love is not the blaze of noon,

But softer light of an autumn moon.

It warms the chill, it soothes the night,

A steadfast flame, a tender might.

And though the path may twist and wane,

Through woods of joy, through fields of pain,

We’ll walk until the dawn appears,

And love will echo beyond the years.