had no words for what we found
the air behind your house that night:
with idle window light,
pale green and round.
to the touch and cold as stone,
no scent. We passed it hand to hand,
and could not understand
little we'd been shown.
later and too late I learned
black walnut looks and how it holds
heavy fruit within its folds
how it must be earned.
Matthew Buckley Smith was born in Atlanta, Georgia. He
earned his MFA in poetry at the Johns Hopkins University. His poems have
appeared (or will soon appear) in Beloit Poetry Journal, Think Journal,
Linebreak, Iron Horse Literary Review, Commonweal, and Measure, as well as
in Best American Poetry 2011. He lives in Baltimore with his wife, Joanna.