An acorn fell
From high in the air
And spun to a stop
By my patio chair.

It fell with a whack
That made me jump,
Burly and green
And round and plump.

I was reading a book there
For most of an hour,
Nursing my second
Whiskey sour.

The book was bleak,
And that acorn thunk
Snapped me back
From being drunk.

Sent on his journey,
Fresh and new,
An acorn traveler
Out of the blue.

His trip was short,
A bounce and a whirl,
God-sent, or chance,
Or maybe squirrel.

A tragic fate,
I thought with a smile,
Having to land
On patio tile.

I'd just been reading there,
All alone,
Of wayward seeds
That land on stone.

They never root.
They cannot grow.
It hardly seems
To matter though,

Because the Bible
Makes it clear
A million acorns
Every year

Fall on fat and
Fertile mud.
My little acorn
Was a dud.

With moving lips,
I briefly shared
The thought with him
That no one cared.

I might have plucked
Him up with ease
And chucked him back
Among the trees.

I didn't though.
I took my book
And went
Without a backward look.

The winter came
With sleet and snow
And covered up
My patio.

Winter's lonely,
Still. It's nice,
My soul-mate there
Beneath the ice.