The sounds of pinecones drop,
lost to songbird twitter.

The Garden's fragrances
bloom among fresh lit charcoal.

The smell of the grill
is lost to the feel
of youthful laughter
and Marco Polo splashes
misting memories in the face.

She lays them all down to sleep
as the night befalls upon
soft beds of dead silence.

Camped under a canopy of stars,
She hears the pinecones drop
and scans the sky for meteors.

Calmly, she closes her eyes,
and waits for one more sunrise.

But deaf is the Dawn
to the rooster's loud crow.

And the sound of a pinecone dropping
is lost to the songbird's twitter.