Poetry

Cone Home

I pluck a pine cone

from the floor of pines

 

and peek

at the tiny world

 

between the cone’s

teeth. I break apart

 

the layers,

snapping them

 

with the same satisfaction

as breaking up

 

a bar of chocolate,

piece by piece.

 

I’m swallowed whole,

taking up the heart

 

of an ant. The people

inside greet me

 

as one of their own,

feeding me

 

nectar

from the cone’s core.

 

I’d like to say

thanks and sorry

 

for the trouble;

doing so would reveal

 

I’m not one of them

at all, just a stranger

 

who walks in the woods

gathering pine cones.

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