The Acorn

You wished it

were a ball,

its pentagons—

dark & light,

kicked it off

the path like

Lionel Messi,

feigned a soaring

goal by Argentina, raised

the cup of gold

above your head, claimed

the world

as yours, blessed by

Pope & Caliph,

forgetting la bellota 

can someday lift

its crown

above us all,

to vaults of

star & sun,

spread its arms 

to empyrean,

the lilting of its

choir, warbling of their

praise,

its entreaty

unto God

with leafy hands,

foliate fingers

clasped

in supplication,

pleading mercy in the

ether, not for the

sake of itself

but for us,

for our primacies

gone amiss,

in the still that

solemnity gives—

no confetti,

no parade,

beyond our shapes

& karats,

our faulty tally

of its worth.

Andreas Gripp

June 2, 2025

RF Image