Leaves and
Acorns
by Matt Cox
I walk the ground.
The path of solid, broken bricks
is to my left
or right.
It all depends on where I’m going.
I walk the path,
only when it passes beneath
my close-toed shoes.
When I no longer need its support,
we part ways.
Maybe we’ll meet again.
The leaves of red, orange, yellow,
and green scatter,
as I scuff my way through them.
The acorns sound off
with a satisfying crack.
When immersed in their song
yesterday’s horrors seem gone
and forgotten,
but they remain
in every Fall-
among the leaves and acorns.
When fertile autumn storms
announce their intentions,
caution gives birth to chaos,
and all pray they don’t become
it’s toys.
The twisted skeletons of the cautious
were carried away
but pieces of them remain.
Red bumper, green fender, and an orange side mirror
lie scattered across the highway’s left,
but it’s the right that ensnared me.
Two forms,
human in shape
but empty and still,
lay on wet asphalt,
draped in a yellow tarp
as if the dead desire dignity.
There is no rest from the dream,
leaves and acorns only sing once a year,
and wet stone provides no comfort.
You all have a great weekend and try to stay safe out there.