pine cone

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I went for a walk, on the road, in winter

the road was white, and snow –

covered, in snow clumps

crumbling.

there was a pine cone, flattened

bottom up,

top down

driven over

squished into the ground.

I have been that pine cone.

Sledding, (more snow) and clumps, crumbling

and bumps, tumbling

bottoms up tops down, sled

riding me the rest of the way down

until my face became brakes, red cheek on white

ground.

I have been that pine cone, riding my horse

I was afraid of the rabbit, for him

he was afraid for him too, but

he did the jumping

bumping me

and I did the falling, sliding, bottoms

up, and tops

down, white face on

green ground.

I have been that pine cone, planted in safe ground

scooped up, dumped down

the bottoms of life tipped

up, set away high beyond mountains, and

the tops tied down, there

red dust on red cheeks, spitting out

brushing off

new ground

careful not to touch

red bruises

              (or green cactuses)

              (or pale yuccas)

              (or homesick memories)

But then I saw

bottoms up

this ground – this red dirt under fingertips

was living, and

tops down,

I saw the sky, a cup

of sunshine, poured top-down

to bring the bottom things up
even pine cones.

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