Pine Cone Poem

A pine cone sits next to my bed,
it sleeps whilst I sleep
dreams whilst I dream;
night after night, I lie
foetus-style and watch its
teak shell open and close.

I have given up on words,
why do I need to hear the meanderings
of other minds
printing out tortuous lines
when I can watch the compact whorls
of a pine cone sighing
in the silence before sleep?

These spurs and crags nesting
one upon the other 
like moth owl eyes,
wind chimes
every time they breathe in air.

I curl around them in the dark,
palms resting over/under,
tracing each notch with fingers that see
listening to the rattle of
paperish bones
rasping out a life.

All the answers are hidden in this kernel,
the cob containing the heart of being
and together
we breathe imperceptibly
in out in out
my handheld weathervane;
wooden poet.

The whole world is wrapped upon this hub,
fashion by master carvers,
filigree sheets, worm barked;
bearing fruit deep into the night.
When I dream,

an imprint of all the stories ever written 
about every life ever lived
is etched onto these seeds, 
around a nub
ever ripe and ready to spill.

It tells me of the darkest 
forest it has ever seen:
of hawfinches and crossbills
plucking out its pithy splinters.
It speaks of summer storms and winter stillness,
of stars that line its own heart,
reflecting in empty vaulted skies

and I lie in the leaf litter, lost;
fingers following the roots
of language back to the core
and creaking under the weight of the world,
I build a nest.