Poem #192
Untitled #7
Twenty pine cones gathered
at the feet of a young pine,
huddled together for warmth
among the ice cold due drops of morning.
Maybe the wind invited them to meet
or some brown-furred and fastidious creature
had a moment of fleeting aesthetic choice.
I read somewhere the cones grow legs
in the middle of the night and come together
to talk about their dreams.