A springtime of rain and not much sun, one
death amid thoughts of death, grief a constant
ache in the throat, the word sing, prefix of
single, and the walnut in the cracked shell.
I pry it open with a knife. Hemi-
spheres. Two halves of something adored for its
wholeness. Hawk overhead quite curious.
I taste the crumbs of white flesh, familiar,
yes, I’ve been here before. The black walnut
and guardian woodpecker watched me crouch
to collect nuts while guiding the mower
with one hand. I filled my pockets each fall.
A cloud climbs the sky and someone down
the valley blows a muffler. You know, a thing
of importance will never end, never
be final. I forgot the nuts till one
rolled out of my summer trousers, hung on
the line at the start of spring.