Acorn

Consider the acorn; all the countless born
to each the reaching bough of every Oak.
While all in time are loosed and dropped,
they often meet an early end, beneath
the Oak or Maple, Spruce or Pine, atop
the early leaves of Autumn, moist and wept.

Of all conceived at such great heights above,
it's few that take to root, and latent first,
begin their beckoned bloom, becoming soon
the blossomed life that every acorn formed
was meant to be; a strong and growing Oak
aright and sprung out fully formed to feel
the mirth of sunlit days, despondent night,
the birth and living wrought in willful Spring,
bereavement brought on Autumn's crimson wing.

Consider why; for what the countless loss,
the lives potential spent and wasted hence
to only birth a rel'tive few? And what
awaits the many spent that never stood
beneath the sky? I ask, in faith I ask,
but meekly wonder why, and what awaits
the countless cast that fleeting life denies.