6 feet off the ground
but 60 feet beneath the crown
things always steep
but underneath the needles
I never weep
a parent and its child
after it’s been a while.
the bond is so ethēreal
I pick a pinecone off the floor
its features so adorned,
yet to see its first scorch,
burning to see its seeds born.
and then I look with backwards eyes
to see what’s in this flesh disguise;
the screams are muffled and alive
life ablaze, born in flames
chronicles tale scars untamed.
and some brief stints of prolific greatness
then it all made sense.
of mothers, we are the same;
from burns we gain.
