Its needles fading, vibrancy waning like the folded grey skin,
Of a Grandmother's hands...
And the PineCones...
They crunched underfoot, and crackled in my palms,
Resting gently under the tired boughs...
Creaking gently in the windless air,
Dryer than the trickling sand, of a turning hourglass,
I quivered,
The fluttering seeds, rustling,
Disconnecting from their blooming, geometric cocoons,
Settled huskily.
And I am quiet.
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