An acorn I stole.
You can't steal an acorn, I can
hear you say. Oh, but you can, I would
answer. I know.
It belonged to an ancient oak, in the forest
on the mountain of the Sugarloaf. My nan
showed it to me, she said
the forest had once been people,
poeple who grew tired,
tired of the swiftness of life,
busy life no longer worth living. And
so they had stopped.
Stopped to listen to the wind;
stopped to protect their brothers with four legs, their sisters
with wings. They stopped to connect their roots
deep into Mother Earth.
That's what I wanted, to stop.
And so I took an acorn,
to swallow and become one of them.
And be connected.