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A stretch is the beginning
of birth. Pine bracts bear
cycles of wet and dry
that make the cone bloom
and fall. Her wooden fractals
teeter around an axis, a spiral
staircase of wombs now
pointed towards the ether.
Soon she will roll down
that hill and sleep with fungi
that collect on her scales,
while her children learn
to tickle the clouds. Scoop,
cradle, offer her things
the needles kept away—
a mellow sun, the autumn
crisp. Try to make her happy.
Adore the Fibonacci, how
carefully this pattern
was planned. Or not planned.
A closer look and you are
aware of ridges that run
fickle on your skin,
the explosions of your irises.
Like her you have been
tinkered with by time.
Search, find the scales empty.
You have missed the gifts
she has offered. The beasts
have beaten you to it.
You claim her instead,
beautiful after her becoming.
How sticky and sharp,
the resin that dries
on your palms.