The Acorn

Rustled by an autumn breeze,
the acorn fell to rest
near a mouse who promptly pleased
to take it for her nest.

Crouching by, a fox’s eye
caught sight of nut and mouse.
Pouncing high, he heard her cry
and took her to his house.

There a den of smaller bones,
the mouse was added more,
and the acorn, left on stones
will rot inside its core.

Till a squirrel ‘mid harvest haste,
who found the acorn sweet,
buried it for later taste
as winter’s coldest meat.

Yet in all his hurriedness
he failed to see the gloom
of the shadow hawk wings press
upon their prey in doom.

Now the acorn’s planted deep,
with none to know its place,
none to eat, and none to keep;
what evidence to trace?

But a little nudge next spring,
and through the ground a poke—
seedling first and then sapling,
and finally an oak!

Life and death, and you and me—
don’t be afraid, but awed,
for in all these things we see