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.