I stand small, in the summer of my innocence, beneath the ancient, lumbering, struck walnut tree.
The shimmery, amber haze of thick Summer sun, hypnotizes me;
I dream of a silver winged storm that struck a jagged and cavernous 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 downy coolness of 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 it’s children leaves.
I know it will always be with me.