PINE CONES

 

Scattered across the yard in large numbers,

scales open and seedless,

cast off from high branches,

and dropped to earth,

their prehistoric commands completed.

 

Grounded pine cones wobble as they roll

across the fall’s earthen floors,

a crop for woodpeckers and squirrels,

a reminder of a tree’s past decade,

fallen nurseries of seeds dispersed,

still littering as seasons pass.   

 

Stumbling blocks for feet set forward to clear

 a footpath besieged with

large, broken branches,

                    and split or uprooted trees,

                    fallen remnants of winter storms and

March winds.

 

A fog of heavy, green pollen fills the air,

          obscures the footpath, littered with

                  the rejected and discarded,

the damaged and broken

bygones.

          Too many to stack neatly in a pile,

          Too thick to walk through and ignore,

          Too heavy to push aside and move on.

 

The annual shedding of old things

        to make room for the new

            becomes thunderous

                as the path becomes longer. 

         

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

©cmheuer, 5/2022