A Moment

On my little

table, between

notebook and old

lamp there sits a

perfect pinecone.

It smells a bit like

my siblings on

a fall day,

drenched in

leaf-bits, crunched

underfoot and

piled to make

walls and

beds and

pillows. We were

prepared

to live there,

beneath boughs,

beneath clouds

and dreams— maybe

one of them

knows

why we left.