“The Walnut Tree”

The soft-touched liquid light
Drips down skeleton branches, stained red and gold by autumn leaves,
While you, unable to resist the siren song of trees and grass, abandon the worn trail tamed and molded by human hand
To pause beneath a tree— ancient, somber, wild.
Dirt clings to your knees as you kneel before this temple made of wood and search among its roots,
To uncover a walnut, the black outside peeling away from wrinkled skin.
The dying layer, meant to protect, turns your fingers dark.
They used to turn this into ink, you know, you say, reverently holding your palm in the dancing sunbeam. What a human thing to do.
The walnut leaves its mark on both of us, you
Staining fingerprints across my ribcage,
Biting wine-dark kisses down my neck.
I’ve always been a skeptic but you,
You find god in the smallest things. And this smile, soft and secretive and burning into my soul like the sun itself,
Is enough to cause a conversion.