Come home with me you stout little man with your
little brown turban and tiny pointed chin.
Remind me of mornings draped round with autumn once again.
Come sit now on the windowsill. In the small room
you can recount your times in sun, wind, and wild spring rain; of seasons here and gone. I will listen to you and imagine the things you say, the sights you've seen. I will open the window just behind my eyes and see whatever you say. Give me your visions, show me vignettes of powerful progeny, of mighty oaks and of humble fallen seeds.
What a firm voice from a such a wee seed. And such towering tales you tell!
I passed a respectable grove of oaks in early spring. Emerald leaves painted deep with dew shimmered in morning light and made the oak forest seem enchanted. Catkins dangled playfully in the breeze from many branches like a gang of little-boy-legs hanging lazily off a dock in summertime. Are they dreaming and bragging of becoming an oak tree too someday; a righteous towering oak?
Mother Oak and Father Oak have followed me all my days. Mother, holding the ropes that carried me high on a homemade swing long ago, Father standing firm with his lavish breadth of shade beside my bedroom windows last year. And just yesterday, standing along the path offering acorns at my feet. When they whisper, I am comforted and intrigued. When they shout, I laugh and cry and am undone.
So, stay with me little acorn. Stay fall and winter too on the windowsill here in my room. I will listen to you and in the springtime, set you back along the path.
I passed a respectable grove of oaks in early spring. Emerald leaves painted deep with dew shimmered in morning light and made the oak forest seem enchanted. Catkins dangled playfully in the breeze from many branches like a gang of little-boy-legs hanging lazily off a dock in summertime. Are they dreaming and bragging of becoming an oak tree too someday; a righteous towering oak?
Mother Oak and Father Oak have followed me all my days. Mother, holding the ropes that carried me high on a homemade swing long ago, Father standing firm with his lavish breadth of shade beside my bedroom windows last year. And just yesterday, standing along the path offering acorns at my feet. When they whisper, I am comforted and intrigued. When they shout, I laugh and cry and am undone.
So, stay with me little acorn. Stay fall and winter too on the windowsill here in my room. I will listen to you and in the springtime, set you back along the path.
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Thanks for sharing a minute or two with me. Your comments are much appreciated.