Black Walnut

The moon shows through the filigree
of my black walnut tree's

All summer, the boastful sun 
kept after her, one
day into the next,

And though she did not love him,
she needed him. She thinned
by degrees.

The moon paints my black walnut tree silver
where the thick green of her
is gone.

The sun comes less and less, bored
with his conquest;
the moon stays, but is mad, 

And my walnut tree lays her beauty down
upon the earth cold and brown,
indifferent as a grave.


Sherry Blue Sky said…
Oh those men, bored of their conquest. I am so over them! LOL. Loved this, love the walnut tree laying her body down, LOVE "the moon stays, but is mad." Been there, done that! Hee hee.
hedgewitch said…
The season so often written to death gets new life and breath here--and your black walnut tree seems to have roots in our own hearts and souls, or else why do we feel so naked in the wind, so played by the sun and moon? Simple, and beautiful writing in all ways.
Sioux Roslawski said…
As always, I am amazed. Your poems each take on different tones, and you touch upon such varied topics. This is so gorgeous.

(Don't worry about the recipe and even so, you have oodles of time. I'm nowhere near finishing the *itch of the manuscript. ;)
Kerry O'Connor said…
This is a rare kind of beauty - an emotive picture in words. I don't know how I missed it earlier in the week but I am glad to have found it today.