A little boy with stick in hand, he points to where the tall trees stand. Beneath their shade, so rough and brown, a pine cone tumbles softly down. He lifts it up with curious eyes, and sets it where the flagstone lies. He carefully inspects each spine – a tiny treasure, rough, divine. Upon his trike, he finds a place. He saves the cone, with gentle grace. It rides atop, a prize so true, as wheels spin fast, his strength to do. At last he brings it through the door, to keep it safe forevermore. A gift the forest freely gave – a pine cone prince, both bold and brave. [Instrumental] Himself he is a being one, by birth, and name and speaking done. May God see to it he recalls this way of being, as time falls.
