The Grave Digger, or Not Another Ode About the Trees

I’ve learned I’ve

pondered the trees

in a fallacious way.

Yes, I’m aware

the poets gorge

on oak & ash.

A sycamore is less.

Their buds outnumber

the sand.

 

But all this time their

branches have been

roots—roots have been

their scions—

stretching to a

sacrilege of light,

 

the undertow of earth.

This is why the

moles are nearly blind.

Treasure at the

bottom of abyss.

Squinting’s a game

for the quick

& not the dead.

 

Who decides what’s sky?

Behold the flight of worms.

 

Our grandson

stomps on leaves

to hear the crunching of

their bones. This is something

beauty cannot offer. Supple’s

invariably soundless—

which only the deaf can hear.

 

A surface

yet to wrinkle

hasn’t lived. To wither

is to feel the

sigh of God. There

below the stratum.

Every stone a star.

 

The basis for why

you’ll stop at six feet

down. Why you’ll roll

your beloved over

once the mourners

sob & flee. Her dreams had

always burrowed never

soared. Your shovel

like a staff

that splits the sea. 

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

March 20, 2026