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.