by Keith Baughman

when the intelligence of the acorn
sinks into the memory of mud
a vast storehouse of wisdom opens its doors
to the first gleaming rootfingers
piercing the softening acorn shell

Keith Baughman lives in Pennsylvania’s middle where the Susquehanna River divides ravines from farmland.  He walks to work through a cemetery where countless poems rise up and vanish everyday.  Previous work has appeared in Generator, Pindeldyboz & Word For/Word.