I sat under a mighty oak tree and through its branches I could see the moon.
The wind whispered its soft command: “the time is now, not late or soon”
Then a hundred acorns fell to ground. Was it force of air or only sound
That brought such hail of offspring down?
For the tree is shepherdless in these latter days, relying on wind to set its ways
And fading sun with waning rays to say that fall has come.