Pinecone

Crisp petals peel away, let the stem breathe. Globs of sap cling to the tips, hope for the sun to make them drip or a finger to break open the sticky spice. The piney smell touches my nostrils when I bring my fingers to my nose. It feels like a mild glue, only natural, tastes like a tree. This bud, lain upon a bed of dry needles, is seen when I look down at where my feet trample. I crushed several before I found this rigid flower. The brown shade is deep toward the center, like wet earth. The petals look like leaves, arching toward light, opening the aroma of winter, spice, life.