Nutcrackers are sowing forests
from pregnant cones
in an evolution of love,
conical beaks shepherd
new woods up mountainsides,
their own eggs cracked
from lichen-lined nests in larches.
The young are tended and taught
how to take the barred spiral
of toughened scales to unfurl
a galaxy on Ural ridges,
shown the nature of time
and how to defeat it
in the way that snowfall slows
and softens over the ground.
Pine trees grow in regiments,
earth blooded, violet bloomed
beneath the songs of breaking branch
and wingbeat, and men complain
that they have been unmanned,
goddesses protest at their unworship:
life being a succession of planted seeds
to nurture an inevitability of grief.
Here was Attis, born from a pomegranate
held to his mother's breast -
until the loggers came,
the waft of sap, acidic,
mourned by these spotted birds.
Image is from wikimedia commons: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Nucifraga_caryocatactes_Davos_1.jpg
Also on Twitter, this beautiful painting: