Little brown morsels on the walk,
As if where a goose might stalk…
Of a plant nature,
Literally pushed off the stalk.
Old pine cones make way for new,
I think they’re spruce, don’t you…
Smaller than pine
Seeds small and fine,
Lying there looking so blue.
Maybe squirrel or bird trickle-down
In feeding threw them to ground…
They await a broom,
Destined to be compost pile bound!