Pinecones in the Green, Green Grass

Pinecones in the Green, Green Grass
by Amy Poland

On Thursdays I mow my
parent’s lawn.
My mother warns me
not to hit pinecones
with the mower.

I like the sound they make.

“Flut!”

They bark,
a sharpish sound,
like some broken bird cast low,
about to ascend to freedom,
and then rendered to shrapnel.

My mother thinks I’ll go blind
from pinecone shrapnel.

I take my pleasures
where I can get them.

FLUT!

Amy Poland

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