There once was a pinecone alone,
Whose glow was entirely its own.
Painted bright in the night,
It gave off soft light—
Now it guards my bedside as Slimecone.
My Sweet Slimecone
On my bedside ledge it waits,
a ponderosa spell in mint-green light—
night’s smallest lantern,
guardian of the half-asleep.
Once a forest’s fist of resin
and thunder-scented bark,
now it glows like something
rescued from a wizard’s pocket
or grown in the dark belly
of a kindly swamp.
Each scale a tiny moon.
Each moon a tiny promise:
you made something strange,
and it loves you back.
When the room dims
and the mind wanders,
the slimecone hums its dim green lullaby,
holding the shape of quiet triumph—
the alchemy of paint and pine,
the delight of calling something yours
that the world would never think to name.
I touch it once
before sleep drifts in,
feeling its ridges, cool and certain.
Glow of the unordinary.
Beacon of bedside magic.
My gentle, glowing
slimecone.