intellect and imagination

There's a song that wants to sing itself through me.
Am I listening
to hear the tune that I might not recognize
as it is different from all other
dances I see and melodies I sway to

it's not this seriousness
it's more yellow somehow
and lives at the intersection
of walking in the cold grass in socked-feet
and sitting on a stump cut flush with the ground
sort of crooked, but almost flat
so I turn to welcome the incline and not totter at it
with my baby curled into the seat made with my legs.

She picks up a pine cone.
I start to stop its move toward her mouth
and then stop myself
and giggle at the pursed lips
that taste woodiness and prickles
as she pulls it away
slobbery
back and forth, taste and away.
We sit as the sun sets
unable to shrug off the thought that
it's indulgent
to soak in this moment
as a slow breath
enlarges the space around us.
We should be inside
shouldn't we
maybe she's cold
maybe I'm cold
maybe we should have shoes on
or coats
or be on the human-made ground
and not this
not here

but we are
and the fragrance of impermanence wafts around us
as we sway to the music of the song that we're supposed
to sing with these lives
in a duet for a moment
harmonizing
as leaves crunch under my socks
and she learns the flavor of pine cone.