Acorns

Up the hill and down the road
around one bend and then another

boys on bikes and I on foot
as brother chases after brother

'til we reach the silent oak
that feels the sigh of mid September

and gently lets her acorns go
to wait through winter, each an ember

holding onto sparks of spring.
We collect these in our pockets

to plant in pots or string on strings,
to coax to life or give new scope

as parts of arts or crafty things.
We sit there, shaded by the branches,

idly talking in the grass
fitting acorns with berets:
tiny gentlemen trying on hats.

Nostalgia of Middle September

As if God had turned the world upside down
an ocean of gray cloud floats over our town.
Hinting at blue, an inverted horizon
makes strange fish of all the birds I lay eyes on.

This is one of those in between days
when the sun has gone sly, and is hoarding its rays.
Every breeze holds a scent I remember.
How deep, the nostalgia of middle September.

Cool air through the window, smelling of wishes...
Warm suds on my forearms, plunged deep with the dishes...
Lazily soaping and rinsing a ladle...
Lullabies sway through my mind, like a cradle.

The inhale and exhale of Autumn's first gust,
colored with aster and goldenrod dust:
a peaceful reflection of spirit that brings
the quiet affection of everyday things.