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Walnut Tree

fruit

I grew up in a beanā€soup house, with cornbread breath,
but in the backyard was a secret home that only I
could see, a sumptuous palace, a shining
villa of my imagination. It was a weathered wooden
crate beside a walnut tree, banked by honeysuckle
and flanked by a sedgeā€grass field. And I loved the
walnuts, and the swing my father made and hung
from the lowest branch of the tree. I was safe there,
and angels winked from every leaf. Remember,
how little happiness costs, how free is love.

Carol Wills lives inĀ Durham, N.C.

Posted in: Poetry, Quakers and Social Media

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