The lonely acorn aims,
hearing the safe leaves bristle and jeer in a cat call.
While its stem shoots and stands tall
those dead leaves see black and spinning rims.
When our ceilings don’t relent
we take on blisters and make a dent.
A skylight from the bend
from a struggle with no end
Twigs hit a rough end
taking on streams
that drown their dreams.
I heard the voice from above
and walked down the mile
to where the priest did serve in duty
and told him to hold my call.