Poem by Nora Kirkham

This word for pine sounds like waiting,
the way trees rise around a shrine, tied
with hemp ropes, their resin aching
for a god to descend.

In another country, my father
plants a pinecone under leaves,
marking its place on a plank in kanji.

This sign sinks into the soil
as the cone takes root and crosses
fungi threads on its descent
towards a bedrock of sparkling quartz.

This seedling is a prayer that drinks
from the rock and a word like waiting,
reaching out to winged voices
on higher branches,

until the tired and far-flung words spread
into a sharp green forest, pining
for something old and something else.