Not Yet, Little Pinecone
Tam held a little pinecone. It was brown and tight and cold. Wisp floated close beside them. Snow fell on Tam's hat. Drip, drip, said the roof. Tam looked at the pinecone. It did not open. Not yet, little pinecone. Not yet.
Tam sat down on the warm step. The lamp glowed yellow above them. Wisp glowed too, soft and white. Tam held the pinecone in both mittens. Drip, drip, said the roof. The pinecone stayed shut tight. Tam waited. Tam did not squeeze it.
Snow came down slow and quiet. A cat walked by in the snow. Tam counted the drips from the roof. One, two, three, four. Wisp drifted up and down. The pinecone grew warm in Tam's mittens. Drip, drip, said the roof.
Tam breathed on the pinecone. Huff. Huff. Then Tam held still again. Wisp glowed a little brighter. Drip, drip, said the roof. Tam sang it a small song. Not yet, little pinecone. Not yet. The snow made no sound at all.
Then something moved in Tam's mittens. One small scale lifted up. Tick, said the pinecone. Tam held very still. Wisp came close to look. Another scale lifted. Tick. Tick. Drip, drip, said the roof. Tam smiled. The lamp glowed above them.
Scale by scale, the pinecone opened. It opened like a little brown flower. Tam saw the tiny seeds inside. Wisp glowed bright, then soft. Drip, drip, said the roof. Tam yawned a big warm yawn. The village was quiet and full of snow.
Tam lay down under the wool blanket. One hand held the open pinecone. The other hand held Wisp. Wisp glowed soft against Tam's fingers. Drip, drip, said the roof. Tam whispered, not yet, little pinecone. Not yet. Then Tam's eyes closed.
