buried

Friends we were.
We played in the wind.
We decided on the stem of a leaf
To grow tall and strong and old together.

We buried the acorn an inch too deep,
And now my fingernails are black
From trying to scratch it out.

I want to hold it.
I want to remember you.
Remember you holding it.

You smacked it to your forehead,
Pronouncing yourself king.
I made the leaves
Flutter and fly all around you.

The acorn rested suspended between our palms
Wet with the leaves' dew.

Two rocks scraped out the hole
In which to bury the acorn.
The dirt cast up into two piles.
Yours and mine.
Mine and yours.

The hole dug,
You pressed the acorn to my lips
Then placed it upon yours.
Two satisfying smacks
And we laid it to rest
Before tumbling the earth back upon it.

Our hands brown and smelling like creation.
We didn't wipe them on our pants
But shared the dark fingerprints on cheeks, nose, and chin.

It felt like the sun never set on that day.
But feeling betrays.
For here I kneel, desiring to exhume this stubborn acorn,
The remnants of that day--
Even that day's setting sun.