TWO POEMS

Poem Written with a Pinecone in My Hand

Here in my hand a cone from the beautiful eastern white pine sits
an offering from the tree planted thirty years ago after earth softened up
come spring enough to dig a hole roughly twice the size of the burlap
ball around the root of it. The cone measures six inches in length minus

the short stem; the stem extends into the axis around which whorlforty-two wood-like scales. Under each scale a pair of seeds with bluntsingle wings like aged paper once hidyear flared open and released them into the paws of a ground squirrel.