by Sarah Tate
I GO TO THE OAKS ANGRY AND DISILLUSIONED
and find there in the park children
discovering the existence of acorns.
No matter what the world was or is,
since these children only know now
plunk plunk, as seeds drum down
through the rooms of an oak.
They hold them up to a fading sun
as strange pearls, thrown by a Hand
who delights in scattering treasure
amid the wide shoulders of the hills.
Maybe they have unearthed rare
evidence that we’ve been led here.
As if heaven gives this dusk,
with spread of red over wild skies,
geese going west, their shadows
large in trees by imperfect light,
to be discovered only by those
who hold a patience for beauty,
so we may know, in burial,
seeds will always find
the soil they’re meant for.
SARAH TATE
Sarah Tate is a poet, editor, and writer from the pine trees of Virginia. She’s always been passionate about the intersection between philosophy and ordinary life, with a special love for showcasing the wonder and majesty of an infinite God. A Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has been featured in Solum Literary Press, Ekstasis, The Clayjar Review, and elsewhere, and her chapbook Scapes was released in 2025.
You can find her musing about poetry, philosophy, and good books on Substack Still Points.