The walnut’s face is perfect.
The lines of the two halves,
Each the same sacred form of creation, but
Once the shell browns and dries,
Is the fruit too dry for the heart?
Does each half weather the same?
What binds but a thin membrane
For chipping on the Eve?
Can the heart of this shell
Ever be redeemed for more than a pittance?
Is age a debt?
Has love gone bankrupt?
Who’s weighing this expense?
What is it worth, this cracked Self?
Is this heart to be left as a tip
For a small meal left half eaten?
Who is to pay this bill?
Will this be separate or together? –
Copyright© September 23, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard