Friday, December 23, 2011


Acorns. They're all different. Each oak species has it's signature shape, color, size, bitterness, sweetness. Or so I've heard. So far, all my attempts at eating them have been unsuccessful. Still, they are not just food to me. I squirrel them a way in corners of my life. Recently I opened the zipper of an old bike bag and about fifty old dry ones rolled out, along with my allen wrenches. I used to carry them in the center console of my car. Sometimes I'll find one that I like and keep it in my pocket for days, like a worry stone, but with more life.

I am an old oak
branches hanging low
darkened by the storm
burnt hollow.
Rain collects inside:
a calm black pool of sorrow.

Something beautiful is growing here.

An older song, a newer bag of acorns.
"Do you want to collect acorns or watch a movie?"
"Collect acorns!!"
We want to make cookies, my niece and I. I've never done it before, and neither has she. Acorns hold all kinds of possibilities.

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