True Tales of An Acorn
I felt his little wrinkled nose pressing through the snow, just when I thought I was all alone, under this lovely quilt so bright. I’m tougher than I look; I can be broken. Let the cold freeze his selfish schnoz! The psychiatrist did say I have an anger problem, he called me a nut - I told him to leap from this tree and to my amazement he did. His swan dive was amazing, swirling and twirling, but darn, he landed on those lazy leaves.
I prefer to think of myself in poetic words, I am the fruit of the oak. I’m leather-tough and my body’s shaped like a cup. I’m practically perfect.
The bully-birds picked on my brothers and sisters. They came close to me a couple of times, but the kindly wind swept them away, their tail feathers ruffled.
In the Autumn I fell, landed hard - my bum bruised and an impish human threw me into a basket. I was humiliated as I dashed against John Does. He took us up, lined us up like army men - should I salute, I wondered.
His mother called him in; the wind came with a cold shoulder this time, brushed me off. Then this bitter storm of white flakes frightened me. I fought the shiver - over time I became warm under confectionary powder.
My future grim - I see now I shan’t become a tree. I reside inside another living thing - adieu adieu. I close my eyes as I am chewed. I leave this note beside my cocoon. Remember me, mon amie as you look up.
4/29/2020
The Last Acorn Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Lawless
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