The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Matthew Buckley Smith

Juglans Nigra

  We had no words for what we found

Taking the air behind your house that night:

  Speckled with idle window light,

     Something pale green and round.


  Smooth to the touch and cold as stone,

It gave no scent. We passed it hand to hand,

  Laughing, and could not understand

     What little we'd been shown.


  Years later and too late I learned

How a black walnut looks and how it holds

  Its heavy fruit within its folds

     And how it must be earned.

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