Acorn, stolen

 

Acorn, Stolen

Rough oak planks I sand, oil, polish
with the deference a rich man expects.
The roulette table a gift, a surprise
for his young wife — sparkly,
pretty as a rich man expects
but I spy a flaw in one board, a hollow
containing an acorn tucked long ago
by industrious woodpecker.

The nut has split sprouting
— sexy, hairy, one root
— pale, hopeful, one stalk
curled crammed in that womb
seeking earth, seeking light.
This board I set outside.

Lunch time, snowed with sawdust
I step from wood shop to fresh air.
The plank, still in sunshine.
The hollow, empty. Who stole?

Three years later in spectacular blaze
the roulette table burns to cinders
along with the mansion and the rich man himself.
Sparkly pretty widow with flamboyant grief
relocates to Paris with the money
and the men you’d expect.

Twenty years later an oak tree
shades my wood shop,
host to woodpeckers with red heads.
Some gifts are wasted. Some, transplanted.
Some of us in craft are rooted.
We seek the light.

……

First published in I-70 Review
photo by Ivar Leidus