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Picking Up Pinecones
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poppyromanov
I light a few candles, so
the moon is no longer alone.
My secret heart wakes
inside its draped cage
and cracks a song.
After a life of imagining, I notice the ceiling.
It is painted blue
with a border of pinecones.
I've spent my life in a forest.
Picking up new things,
will it never end?