I Tend to Forget

Pine cone tucked
in the pocket of my coat
Small, compact.
A tightly balled fist, a wooden knot.
I wrap my fingers around it
and squeeze its rough scales
when things get to be too much.
It reminds me of my journey
from the branch to the earth.
It has been a good life. I tend to forget.
I forget the sharp smell of needles and sap.
The first frost.
The sun's gentle embrace
The rain, now a fine mist,
now pounding and pounding like blood.