The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Matthew Buckley Smith
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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