The Lightning Walnut Tree
I stand small, in the summer of my innocence, beneath the ancient struck walnut tree.
The shimmery haze of thick Summer sun hypnotizes me, as I dream of a silver winged storm that struck a jagged rip down through the black walnut tree above me.
Moving on the lazy porch swing by the river, I remember the pungent green scent of the walnut flesh as it stained my fingers prying very eager to enter its inside.
My Grandmother told me what fine Christmas persimmon cookies we would bake with this harvest.
Dusk came with a soft tinkling of the calliope on the supine river; and smiles as we sipped with reverence, her special lemon iced tea.
Squeaky rust chain swing broke into the somber silence as the blues and lavender bathed our eyes from the sky.
In my cool, down feathered bed, so far up the steps in the old home… I see that tree.
It just stands old and knowing; letting some distant storm stir its children leaves.
I know it will always be with me.