A Lone Pine Cone

There lies a pine cone on top of the freshly cut grass,
In June it sticks out like a sore thumb among the green mass.

How did it end up in the middle of the field,
Hidden from the machine’s blades — it remains concealed.

The towering forests cast their shadows overhead,
Offering protection to the cone’s attempt to spread.

It has avoided creatures, elements and people — it now waits,
There is no certain future for the cone as it lies in dire straits.