They are tiny time machines,
Some flat, some round and wrinkled
Some so small that they might lodge under
They remind of the summer past
And their time as ova and pollen
Blossoming and then drying.
Or perhaps hidden deep within
A fruit ripe
Tempting a bite from a passing jay or doe or gardener.
Now coiled within
They are the future
Certain that some will fall
To the soil
And bear the winter to
Bear the secret of millennia past
And hold the brilliant hope of another season.