Sometimes its cupule appears a sculpted
lampshade for a dollhouse, a basket weaved
of overlapped leaves—bracts armored and fed
by weathered ages—or locket conceived
to bear a minute goddess’s perfect
breast. Look closely, love, inside this small shell:
how its round wall rises from white to flecked,
faded crimson; tricklings like bloodstains tell
of nature’s endless birth. See the squirrel
on the oak branch there, breaking brown nut free
of its casing. How her sharp, sure claws twirl
and clasp the kernel, teeth knifing cleanly
to pale meat. Its smooth, moist substance heralds
a jewel: opal tinged with emerald.
Roger Armbrust
January 1, 2009
