Shantih Journal | Page 4

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