Embryonics, or The Prophet

An acorn in the ocean

doesn’t sprout. I only say it

once you’ve flung

it from the shore—like a bottle

with a missive

yet conceived—thinking a tree

could never rise

up from the sand.

 

Which is the preferable

death? Being stomped on by a

child’s fleeing heel?

Left in a stranded castle

awaiting waves?

Everything’s tsunami

when you’re small.

 

You’ll say potential

opted to float its years

away. The sanctity of

seed. Something that the

seagulls leave alone.

 

I wonder if it’s you

of whom you speak.

You with your desert

womb. Setting it a sail—

 

like baby Moses

in a basket

by the reeds.

One day to be

struck by the sight of God;

 

countenance aflame,

a chisel in need of

stone, declaring what is holy

and what is not.

 

 

 

©2026 Andreas Gripp