Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.246

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem


I make my home in an old, gnarled oak tree,
well, that is where I was born and I never left;
it is a woodpecker hole- mother made the nest,
I had seven siblings but they are all gone;
and mother left too . . .  I am not sure why.

I spend my daylight hours collecting acorns,
they are plentiful under my oak tree;
sometimes, I bury them which is very silly,
because I never remember where they are;
but most of them I bring into my nest.

Somehow, I seem to know that I need to,
for the winter is coming and it will be cold;
there will be snow covering the ground,
and no food to be found-  except in my nest;
so, I collect acorns all summer and fall.

The days and nights are freezing cold,
but, I am warm and cozy in my nest of acorns;
happily I eat and peak out for a view sometimes,
then, I curl up for a long, long, long snooze;
and so it goes . . .  all the winter long.

One day I reach for my acorn pile,
and to my alarm there is only one acorn left;
THE LAST ACORN . . . oh gosh what now,
I stick my head outside and feel the sun;
it is Spring and I rush down my tree. 

_________________________
April 26, 2020


Poetry/Personification/Acorns Are My Life
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1246-600-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required