I kneel in front of the wheelbarrow -
filling my fists with acorns.
It is a prayer, this rubble cradled in my palms -
cracked shells, holding black emptiness,
and twisted bits of dead moss.
Light billows through the sails
of half-grown grass blades -
setting them into motion
until the sun disappears, and they are stranded
in still, magical dusk.
I notice the paper gloves
covering closed daffodils;
prehistoric gull sounds;
the woody acorn caps -
clattering together in my hand -
and suddenly, in a flash -