by on May 30, 2023 :: 2 comments

Picking pinecones in the woods
Which weren’t really woods-
Just a bunch of old trees, behind the cottage
That stood on an old, gnarly hill
We called a mountain,
The trees mumbling to each other
Under their breath, of the cold
The cold that froze the sap in their veins
The xylems, the phloems all frozen up
And the wind rustled through, ominous
But you kept picking pinecones in the woods
Maybe hearing what the forests spoke
But not really paying attention
Because at that age, who does
You pick pinecones, treasures, keepsakes
To amass, to pile up under beds
Wrapped up in an old jacket
Stuffed into a hessian sack to keep them
Doubly safe, protected from prying adults
Precious pinecones picked in the woods.

– Swapna Sanchita

editors note:

The secret swag of childhood – don’t tell the grownups. – mh clay

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