-This poem reflects on acorns as late summer vessels of possibility, where the fullness of one season quietly contains the beginnings of generations still to come.
They gather quietly beneath the oak,
small brown weights among the grass,
each wearing its familiar cap,
each holding more than shape suggests.
All summer they were hidden high,
beneath the broad and breathing leaves,
fed by rain, and heat, and light,
until the branches let them fall.
A squirrel turns one in its paws,
then carries it beyond the fence,
while others settle into earth,
where darker possibilities begin.
So much of late summer lives here,
the finished season holding futures,
a forest folded into seed,
waiting for the world to make it room.