The Geologist

Grandpa never learned to

read a book—and yet he

knew of layers,

the uplift of the rocks,

that the summit was once

the planet’s ocean floor.

We thought he spoke of

Noah, the sediment

from the Flood. Ain’t no Ark,

he’d say, versed in Earth’s

tectonics.

Everything he spouted

was the wind.

It’s been here since the start.

All of us inhale an

exhalation. A Messiah’s

it is finished

would have drifted

with the stratus. Twirling

back to earth with

love your neighbour.

Watch it in the leaf

of what is dead.

His yard was never raked

although we’d offer.

Let it lie he'd twinkle. Don’t be

in such a hurry.

There’s nothing that’s so

swift it can’t be caught.

Make your rage a blessing.

Always furl your fingers

before you free. Fondle

every flower

with your breath. Caress

the passing zephyr

with your fists;

your knuckles which are

rising like a newborn

mountain range,

an octet of bone & stone,

the plates not mere collision

but a kiss.

Andreas Gripp

January 1, 2026

RF Photo