Acorns pelt the ground,
littering the lawn.
She calls them small prophets,
whispering of the cold to come—
though I think it’s more likely
the trees only speak of the past.
Acorns pelt the ground,
littering the lawn.
She calls them small prophets,
whispering of the cold to come—
though I think it’s more likely
the trees only speak of the past.
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