Picking up Acorns
by Vaschel Miller
One Friday morning I saw
That each cap was crossed
By lines and lines and lines which
Were wrinkled by other lines
Which led me to assume
That these particular acorns
Had come a very long way
As wrinkles typically tell
Of time gone through and
Bridges scrabbled under
And train trestles tiptoed across
And all of these things
Tend to leave a couple of lines
Even after the worry is gone
And even after having come to rest
Snug in one’s own bed of leaves
With a pillow of moss and a
Heavenly host of firefly nightlights
Switched on.
Vaschel comes from Tennessee, where she likes to listen to thunderstorms and cicadas.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy