PICKING UP PINECONES
I light a few candles, so
the moon is no longer alone.
My secret heart wakes
inside its draped cage
and cracks a song.
After a life of imagining,
I notice the ceiling.
It is painted blue
with a border of pinecones.
I’ve spent my life in a forest.
Picking up new things,
will it never end?
Source of the text - Mary Reufle, Trances of the Blast. Seattle: Wave Books, 2013, p. 110.
TJB: Venus in fir. This ars poetica figures nature as artifice & pinecones as tiny poems hanging in the forest of life. Does she want it to end?
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