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.
Poem #192
Poem #192
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.