Pine Cone

Pine Cone

By Nick Aitoro

Little giant,
cast from the heights,
you tumble through the air
yearning still for the sky.

From mother’s crown
to the waiting earth,
you are caught by gentle arms—
moss outstretched,
leaves unfolding.

They make a bed of green,
a cradle woven by time,
where you rest in soft landing,
safe in the hush of the forest.

But sleep is never the end.
Within your hardened shell
the memory of trees remains,
the dream of branches
stretching toward light.

In the silence of soil
you wait,
not fallen but becoming—
an ending that begins again.