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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2 thoughts on “pine cone

  1. I read this last night and went to comment but I got as far as ‘Oh G. Wow.’
    And I couldn’t think of anything more to say than that (and your beautiful words warranted more than an ‘oh wow’) so I accidentally fell asleep on top of my computer and dreamed about the writing and the words and the poetry and when I woke up, I had this on my mind.
    True poetry is just-enough-poetry. Just enough words; not too many, not too little–the soul of a poem is in the choosing and the choice. And that’s life isn’t it? (Sometimes too little or too much but usually) Just enough.
    So glad you + your words are a part of my just-enough-life.

    Like

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