Acorns

He gathers small acorns

with both hands

he presents them to me as I lay

and I gaze at him, the sky blue around his head

dotted with white clouds

as he marvels at the tiny hole

in each of the acorns

and I capture with my lashes the things that bring him true joy

before the world tells him they shouldn’t

The rims of his eyes, curving like the line of the moon

“An insect,”

he decides

and I wonder what it would be like

if my excitement matched his for a joy so small

so I try, my smile stretching wide as I wonder, too

His eyes alive, vast as the sky behind him

A laugh on his teeth, white

and we wonder,

before the world tells us we shouldn’t assume that such small things

deserve so much admiration