December Fall

The hollow acorns spill like fat hail onto the clay
I wonder if the squirrels had their party
When night time comes and silent calmness still
we hear the gunshot pop of the mighty oak seeds
fall onto rooftops and roll to their woody graves

Aye the hibiscus still flitting about
although her petals dry and withered
Sweet smells of night-blooming jasmine
permeate the nostrils instead
as we waft by their perfumed doorway

Dawn’s cloudy turns to sunset’s muted glow
and all between is mix of haze and bright
cool and warm and wishing for snow
but only in dreams does the icy world flow
for here we have wind and sun and fallen acorn hull.

shumard-oak-tree-acorns

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