An acorn is my worry stone
picked up still green
when ferns feathered a waterfall.
Nut-brown now but stirring
still in wise passiveness
cautioning me against selfblown
urgencies. Panic’s the thief
of dwindling years
when we relish
the light on a building
the mood in every face.
A commemorative bench
next to that waterfall would be
fitting memorial for my father.
He used to sit in the backyard
next to the little plastic fountain
sipping a highball in the dark,
planning his strategy
not a dime coming in
the first of each month.
Marble Hill
13 years ago
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