I Pick Up an Acorn and Put It in My Pocket
by Wilda Morris

The acorn’s cap of overlapping scales reminds me
of the stocking cap you used to wear on winter days,
the ways you played in snow, not minding cold air
as you sledded down a hill or shaped piles of white
into man or bear, the joy that sprang from your lips
as you called out to me to see the marvels molded
by your hands. I watched you cart-wheel in the snow,
flips that left their mark across the lawn. Now you
are grown. Another winter is on its way. Soon
I’ll look out the window. No one will hear me say
well done as dimming eyes pretend I see you still.


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