little acorn
the acorn that weighted my pocket had, all that day, been on my mind. i kept it safe and secret with the intention of finding a final resting place for the little fruit so as to allow for ideal circumstances of growth.
that morning i had found the punctured acorn. it was several feet astray from the canopy of its parent tree. it seemingly had fallen the hardest and the fastest at a very young age, so small it was. and it had to have just popped out of its shell because its cap was fitted crookedly at its top. mother had sent me out into the yard to hunt the season's last blackberries upon the blackberry bush that intrusively reached its branches across our farthest fence out behind the house. a fence that stopped abruptly once it reached the woods as if it expected the tree line to take over the fence's duty of protection.
and the oak tree, the largest, had always released the most fascinating acorns that i lobbied into my pockets to later be stored in the drawer of my bureau. a whole family of perfectly rounded, shining oak tree fruit. while in the yard, rather than descending upon the pile that afternoon with my usual intention of picking the finest, i was drawn to the runt. i felt, in the instant upon seeing it, that it needed saving. it had rolled so far from its great oak and i imagined how it most likely yearned for the company of its kin. the poor acorn rolled unevenly across my palm. i dropped it into my right pocket, a handful of blackberries in my left, and walked concernedly back to mother in her kitchen.
"oh thank you, little acorn." mother's smile gold as citrus.
wanting not to disturb mother with her preparation of dinner i went to my room. this wasn't an acorn to be added to the others. i balanced myself on the edge of the bed wondering what to do with little acorn, looking sad. a puncture wound scratched its way across little acorn's side in a subtle arch, giving the impression of a frown upon a blank, dark face. i frowned too. little acorn needed a home. a home different than the kind of its kin, dog-piled against the great oak's trunk and waiting to be stomped into starving soil.
i placed little acorn back into my pocket. the drawer of my bureau, heavy with its shining fruit, slid easily forward and landed in my arms. i ran out into the yard and when meeting the great oak tree, dumped the drawer's contents at its bottom. the perfect acorns fells amongst the piles and i gave up trying to identify those i had just tossed. many perfect acorns, all together and alike.
i ran into the woods with little acorn. pine needles crunching with each foot fall, applauding the escape.
...
that morning i had found the punctured acorn. it was several feet astray from the canopy of its parent tree. it seemingly had fallen the hardest and the fastest at a very young age, so small it was. and it had to have just popped out of its shell because its cap was fitted crookedly at its top. mother had sent me out into the yard to hunt the season's last blackberries upon the blackberry bush that intrusively reached its branches across our farthest fence out behind the house. a fence that stopped abruptly once it reached the woods as if it expected the tree line to take over the fence's duty of protection.
and the oak tree, the largest, had always released the most fascinating acorns that i lobbied into my pockets to later be stored in the drawer of my bureau. a whole family of perfectly rounded, shining oak tree fruit. while in the yard, rather than descending upon the pile that afternoon with my usual intention of picking the finest, i was drawn to the runt. i felt, in the instant upon seeing it, that it needed saving. it had rolled so far from its great oak and i imagined how it most likely yearned for the company of its kin. the poor acorn rolled unevenly across my palm. i dropped it into my right pocket, a handful of blackberries in my left, and walked concernedly back to mother in her kitchen.
"oh thank you, little acorn." mother's smile gold as citrus.
wanting not to disturb mother with her preparation of dinner i went to my room. this wasn't an acorn to be added to the others. i balanced myself on the edge of the bed wondering what to do with little acorn, looking sad. a puncture wound scratched its way across little acorn's side in a subtle arch, giving the impression of a frown upon a blank, dark face. i frowned too. little acorn needed a home. a home different than the kind of its kin, dog-piled against the great oak's trunk and waiting to be stomped into starving soil.
i placed little acorn back into my pocket. the drawer of my bureau, heavy with its shining fruit, slid easily forward and landed in my arms. i ran out into the yard and when meeting the great oak tree, dumped the drawer's contents at its bottom. the perfect acorns fells amongst the piles and i gave up trying to identify those i had just tossed. many perfect acorns, all together and alike.
i ran into the woods with little acorn. pine needles crunching with each foot fall, applauding the escape.
...
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