Pine Cones, a poem
Pine Cones
All night, I lobbed pine cones at the
moon,
hoping to dislodge it from the sky.
You held a jar ready so you might carry
it home,
place it by the bed to light our
lovemaking.
We should have been there rather than
staring upward
at the slow transit of the heavens.
Stephen Brooke ©2014
in a sorta sijo-like form
