Drops from oak tree just ahead of me
on my walk, bounces twice,
rolls over to display
its belly.

I step over it, peer closely as it joins
its nutty brethren on the ground
in this, the falling time,
dropping like rain,
wondering how many more
will fall.

What if it is simply a releasing,
this natural cycle of restoration,
of trying to plant new life?
Not an ending at all,
though it may look that way
to those of us plagued by
the limited vision
of humanity.

What if, by pocketing a few
of the fallen and taking them
home as treasures, I honor
their implied promise—
the possibility of new life?
The assurance that
somehow, in some way
we cannot foresee,
we will go on.

I tuck them in my pocket,
where, with every step,
they click like castanets,
and I go on.