Acorns

Our parklands are carpeted with autumn's acorns at present, lovely fields of them spreading away under the deep aerial greens of towering oaks—you pick them up in handfuls and marvel at how perfect they are, how different each is from any other. A little seasonal miracle. Out jogging this morning, writing a little jubilatory acorn ode in my head—back home, searching for a pen before I forget.

Acorns

In drifts and banks
of burnished gold
they mass, those tawny
roly-poly nuts
that crunch and crackle
underfoot in glades you stroll,
weaponry in the warrior feuds
of boys. When pigs
can fly they'll flock
squealing into this parkland paradise
gorge, fossick, glut,
pig-heaven, utopia of nuts
hand painted each by autumn's
lovely brush, a palette
of browns and bronzes, coppery hues
hardened in the kiln of sun.
All night long they tumble down
rattle and patter, clutter
my eaves, bounce and clatter
like playful garden gnomes
lie winter long
in the nurseries of my gutters
and while I sleep
burst quietly into leaf
take root in loam
next spring march out
reclaim their sylvan dynasty.
Go forth my leafy legions
repopulate the barren vales
those former hills of home.

    – Jogyata.