Pine Cone
The pine cone,
The wooden pine cone,
The brown pine cone,
Had a long story to narrate,
Its parent tree grew along a hill slope,
Fruit was born on its node,
When tree was about twenty feet long,
It began as a green soft nodal presence,
Loads of nutrient soon came along,
Sun shone bright,
And air zoomed to and fro,
The parent sucked all the water it could,
Days went fast,
And fruit began catching with youth fast,
Soon it had acquired fleshy arms,
Spread in conical splendor,
It now hung down,
Sun now shone real bright,
Bathing it day and night,
Tanned and tanned,
With nutrients flowing to new and fledgling,
The fruit had turned mature,
Its tether to the parent was also not so sure,
Winds blew one day hard,
And the pine cone came hurtling down,
It lay there unattended by mountain folks,
And was scraped again and again by the nature,
Till the time I came along,
And picked it up for its pristine beauty,
All of this and more,
Was told to me by the cone,
As it hung in my living room to decorate.
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