the hollows of pinecone
arranged in whorls of geometric specificity
lure me to their labyrinthian desire
I am trapped and confused
wandering criss crossed avenues
of no dimension, no answers, no destiny.
Graduated growths culture tomorrow’s life
Can I parse their language of renewal?
Will you share your seeds of wonderment?
Round, round, rolling, tossing cone:
All those secret hiding places catch the wind,
The air-wind that dries your fingertips
To release tomorrow’s news.
I need these roads of no dimension
These bridges from symbol to meaning
Oh, cone, pull me with your fate to fathom
Universal cycles ‘neath the stars.