by Doug Staker
The greatest minds insist That the universe began In a walnut shell.
How long do you suppose that walnut Sat in a bowl on God’s kitchen counter Before he picked it up and cracked its shell? Did God suspect its contents The day he squeezed its plain, unremarkable facade?
I too am a plain, rough, wrinkled nut Lost among the bushels. Yet when the day should come That I’m placed between the grips And casually squeezed Until I pop and splinter, My natural resistance Failing under pressure, As sure as I’ll be that my world has ended, Will not that be the day That the long-compacted energy Will burst, expand, A blinding flash of light Escape its shell – The birth, the instigation Of infinite, light-speed expansion?
If only nuts were not so fond Of their minuscule darkness.
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