ACORNS I
At Spruce and Oak Streets
they are sleeping.
Their knit caps have been pulled
smugly over their ears.
Their cheeks are a rose brown,
frozen numb under inches and
inches of calming snow.
But then they feel the
sudden pressure
of a boy’s snowmobile boots
across the layers above.
They awake, alarmed,
but remember that in spring
the garrulous soil will weaken,
adopt them as their own.
They dream of sprouting green,
taking a firmer stance
against the tiring seasons.
Raymond Luczak
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