a rotted walnut, one
that fell from the tree
seasons ago, one
that’s been buried, buried
so deep, its shell is now
sculpted to earthly-brown,
still preserved: its outside,
still, right now, shut tight
to the outside. But slice it
open and it’s soft, so much
softer than one might think.
Pull apart its two palms.
Inside, where you think
it’s crumbled, it’s crumbled.
There are lines like paper cuts.
But the meat is pliable:
when you press the cracks
together, they seal.
They hug. Its shape lips
in your hand. The fruit,
freshly halved, sweetens
to the light. When you breathe
in slow, waking breaths—
the air has flavor
like hummingbird nectar,
like magnolia-infused rain.
But everywhere, there is sun.
But everywhere—on the cups of leaves,
on the blades of grass—
there are these drops of dew.