Acorns

The grass is dead and the wind is weary

and the stillness of the flatlands whisper past secrets on deaf ears.

The fog in the morning breathes as if it’s tired 

and the tattered January skies argue in blistering cold.

But while most people hate the overcast and freezing weather,

I actually think it’s quite beautiful. 

It’s like the year doesn’t really know what it’s doing yet.

Which is comforting as I sit on dead sticks and rotten leaves

to watch the clouds churn in silent frustration. 

Swirling in a bitter dance to let out a single stream of sunlight 

only for it to get in my eyes,

and it’s glare reminds me of brake lights on a cold and rainy evening.

Driving through puddles and potholes to get somewhere 

that will distract me from the sound of two lives brushing against one another for a moment,

Only for them to return as if nothing had happened at all.

And I know you’re supposed to spend your time on productive things,

but I can’t help but find comfort in doing nothing.

So while the wind blows hair in my face

and dirt on my shins,

I realize what’s killing me that is no metaphor I can think up will be as powerful as the words

“I miss you”

so what’s the point of writing anything at all?

The days are getting colder 

and the sun sets early in the night,

but I’ll keep moving forward through the cold and damp

and turn the corner to see memories scattered about like acorns 

that cover up winter sidewalks 

and crunch under hesitant footsteps.

I’ll reach down and pick up the largest one 

and I’ll put it in the cup holder of my car

So it will be with me as I drive new roads to new places, and new people to new times,

and while a part of me wishes I could bring them all along,

my heart cannot bear the weight of everything you left.

But I’ll take with me that little hint of you

so that when it inevitably flies out of my passenger side window,

there’s a chance it will find a sunny pasture to land in.

For it to grow and blossom 

and tell the songbirds stories of us.

So that they can sing them in the morning

and we can both hear our tune.

Poetry in nature

A song in bleeding hearts

And acorns in my shoes