by Bill Keller

They all fell from a single tree,
covered the lawn in plump, brown beads: 
the unstrung necklace of a woodland

They were elegant, sleek and round, 
humbly pressed against the ground, 

each cracked open and sent down 

roots that carried the heedless hope 
of launching a prodigious oak,  

leaf, petal, limb and massive trunk,

a peaceful giant with no designs 
beyond scissored-shape and sparkling-sky 

kaleidoscopes, quick breath, warm fire, 

and a shifting, leopard yard. 
After demonstrating
my high regard, 
I removed the nuts with a rake and cart,

though more than several slipped between, 
then sent up flags that I tugged clean

to their furry feet and moldy beans.

I don’t love the green world half enough, 
but with indifference, she forgives. 

Frail stems still spring up through the seams 

and tell me of their lofty dreams.

Bill Keller

Novelist, poet, photographer, runner
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