Cones —James Dott
containers for the stuff of sex
the tiny males
packed with pollen
released to the mercy
of gravity and wind
so much is made
that always some will drift
to female cones, tube in
to the ovules
penetrate the egg
and these cones will swell
with their growing wealth of seeds
tight green
going golden
homely brown
dangling
standing
fused to branch
in time
even the miser’s fist
unclenches
torn loose by the gale
disassembled by beak and tooth
by paw and hand
the tithe is taken
the rest
let fall
