My mother and I debate
we could sell
the black walnut tree
to the lumberman,
and pay off the mortgage.
Likely some storm anyway
will churn down its dark boughs,
smashing the house. We talk
slowly, two women trying
in a difficult time to be wise.
Roots in the cellar drains,
I say, and she replies
that the leaves are getting heavier
every year, and the fruit
harder to gather away.
But something brighter than money
moves in our blood - an edge
sharp and quick as a trowel
that wants us to dig and sow.
So we talk, but we don't do
anything. That night I dream
of my fathers out of Bohemia
filling the blue fields
of fresh and generous Ohio
with leaves and vines and orchards.
What my mother and I both know
is that we'd crawl with shame
in the emptiness we'd made
in our own and our father's backyard.
So, the black walnut tree
swings through another year
of sun and leaping winds,
of leaves and bounding fruit,
and, month after month, the whip-
crack of the mortgage.
Neighbor Fred has a walnut tree in his yard that I never noticed until this week. The color is obviously what got my attention, even though it's been there for many, many years. Not sure why it took so many seasons for me to notice it, but, like Thoreau said, "only that day dawns to which we are awake..." so, I guess I'm finally in a slow-enough pace to notice things like a brilliant walnut tree that's been my neighbor for a long time now.
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