IN A NUTSHELL

Upon a tree with serrated leaf I found,

A fresh nut growing, smooth and round.

It had grown all summer, at its best,

But September still found it far from rest.

Its shape was right, its form – “No sweat.”

But maturity it was striving for, and

Hadn’t reached there yet.

Its size told that – a little small,

Give it time, “Rome wasn’t built in a fall.”

Its color also revealed its youth,

Now don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t uncouth.

It just lacked the brown of Autumn’s tone,

The pastel acorns claim for their own.

I’m sure given time it will be just right,

Big, full-fruited, sealed Tupperware-tight,

Grown-up color, maturity’s stroke,

The future, miniature, enduring oak.

But this morning, it’s not ready for all that,

Growing feet above the forest floormat.

This morning it’s ready to be youthful and green,

To stick by its place and flourish unseen.

I’ve expressed in part what I felt to tell,

Youth to maturity – in a nutshell.

Farewell.

– eab, Sep. ’76