The larvae in the dead acorn

white, full of life, swimming

in its gray excrement

eats the green heart of the

living seed.

 

Brian cracks the shell

softly with his sole,

then uses a stiff fallen feather

to prod it toward a new light

 

where, blind, it wrestles

with death, drowns in air,

not hearing my friend

softly apologize

telling his students

that he trades death for knowledge

 

so they might know

about the minimals

sprouting at their feet

green and white and alive.