Papa
Shelly K. Weathers
Papa knows all about pinecones
about their bowered nests that scratch
at the sky like cheek whiskers
Papa knows about their fall into hiding
where they wait for fire to burn them
free, where they wait for snow
to kindle their physics, where
children may find them
heaped in pirate caches
He can unwind stories of their
winding trails through
masonically secretive chambers
spiraled as tombs of warrior kings
who lay undisturbed under desert arroyos
dressed in armor, wearing masks, holding swords
Papa says, There are more rooms in the kingdoms
of a pinecone
than in all saltbox subdivisions
stacked rooftop to rooftop, folded in ways
the world will appear when
all heaves over again to mountains
and mountains are pierced
by the swords of seeds