Acorn Fire: A Poem

It’s dangerous out here,
green golf-balls
and brown richocheting marbles
crashing through boughs,
thundering the ground.

It’s just the slightest wind
but the trees give forth
their fruit so readily,
staccato knocks
like artillery fire on playset wood.

We just wanted to swing,
blow some bubbles,
pause in the sun.

But the price for a moment of
liftoff, translucence, light
is high and hard.

Yet  sometimes a blow
to the head may be just
what we need.

Copyright Elizabeth May, 2012

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