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.