Acorns

sound like popguns as they pelt our porch,
nugget-bullets, chipmunk-fodder,
hatted woodland faces crowding the ground
unashamed as elf-crowds feasting, flirting
with earth and birthing new forests, if they’re
lucky, or maybe just knocking a knuckle
on my skull, seeing how awake I am to
the fact of falling, the comic annual
cadence of it, of bullet after bullet of
stern big seeds announcing coming
cold, coming bareness, coming quiet.

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