Pinecones

The great sequoia rushes slowly up.
You bring it from a burning north,
counterpoint to fastigata gums
that cap the basalt peaks,
geologic time in their limbs. 
Housed or free, a single germ
carries a mighty trunk.

My daughter hides among sprouts
at the redwood base. Sempervirens,
echoes of a parent century, 
tall and green like memories grown 
for children yet to arrive.
We drift under conifers, our feet
soft as nightjars on needles.

One pinecone is a wooden rose.
She carefully knocks a clutch of seeds
from its scales, aligns 
a dozen on her palm, each a pyramid
waiting to be born. If I plant these
we can come back and see
when I’m older than this garden.