A pine-cone on the windowsill,
its scent vanished with the years, gone,
nevertheless it will remind me still,
those days spent on a mountain side,
and night’s transition into dawn,
when the world colours by morning light
Wildflowers, rustling corn and creek
and you, it is yourself you seek;
until that last one day in May,
when I could no longer stay,
and all was said and nothing left,
besides a pine-cone on the windowsill.
Its scent vanished with the years, gone,
nevertheless it will remind me still.