Hello, said the spruce cone, and teetered on its tip 

before toppling to one side near my foot. 

Hello there, I said, and admired its snowy track, a slipping 

slide stride down the slope. 

Those look like vole tracks, I said, pointing to its trail, 

and it tittered, then sneezed a snowy puff. 

We’re not vole, it said, we’re forest instead

and shook its frosted scales rough, like a dog. 

Forest? I said, crouching closer, bemused. Yes 

forest, it affirmed, then giggled as it settled, stem turning

compass-like, to shrouded sun. 

We’re descendants of ancestors. 

We carry timelines in our tracks. 

We tell stories with the wind. 

We dance needled across ridge, root 

by root

by root. 

The cone’s scales slightly lifted in sudden silence, seeking sky.

Tell us, it said, who are you?

Categories: Uncategorized


  1. This poem is magic


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