A pinecone stuck 
tangled in needles
of what is,
mashed on one end
from the hard fall,
you arrived here
on your own
below the buds 
arching in brush 
poised to flower, 
the firs offering pale tips
of fresh green, and you,
disheveled and bent 
as a vagrant,
crumble in the shadows
of the pine trees,
blindly sustaining the forest.
What will come of you?
Seeds will pass
from your sharp nubs
into the hungry earth.
She will take you down
into her, she will take you 
apart, and she will give you
a way to be of use.


for Rob Murphy
Colestine Valley, OR
from ‘House of the Unexpected’ (Wild Ocean Press)