The Pinecone (Sonnet) Poem by Gert Strydom

I find it half buried under the needle carpet,
listing, half-skew as it had fallen
smudged, loosing colour, with auburn stains
running into the dark brown

half chipped dirty with mud and half rotting
as if anarchy had reached its hand to it,
but from it were sprouting tiny stems in new birth
and roots were anchoring it steady

into its mother earth
and it was a token of the times
were against adversity, the weathering
we all were still growing, still existing:

against oppression still making a living
in a world gone mad, anchored on the Eternal One.