-This poem reflects on fallen walnut hulls staining a garden walk in mid-autumn, where bruised fruit, foraging squirrels, and rain-darkened stone reveal the season through scent, color, and small acts of gathering.
The walnut hulls lie on the walk,
green globes bruised black beneath the tree,
where passing shoes have split the skins
and pressed their bitter scent in stone.
A squirrel turns one with its paws,
then grips the shell and strips it clean;
dark stains spread slowly through its fur
before it runs along the wall.
The afternoon brings scattered rain,
and purple ink begins to stream
between the cracks, around the moss,
and down the steps beside the gate.
At dusk, we sweep the broken hulls,
their rough halves knocking in the pan;
one walnut rolls beneath the hedge
and disappears among the leaves.