Tree Gig

We are all subject to providence. Where we fall, where we land, which way the wind blows us, or the tide. A boy meets a girl in a coffee house in the summer of eighty and life is bliss. They miss? It all goes to hell, a shed load.

A stick
In a Scottish crag
It seems an eon
An acorn is a living twig
A sprig of green in landscape gray
This day, botched gig
For a seed at bay
But in a field soaked
Karmic whorl delivers oak