The Osage orange has been
Losing its mind,
Throwing brain-shaped fruits
At passing cars,
Painting the asphalt chartreuse.
It happens each autumn,
Days of harmless regrets—
Gardens unplanted, mornings missed,
Summer stored in sweater drawers.
Along the lane,
On a gate post,
A squirrel has hung a walnut
Hull, neatly as a cap on a peg.
Its uncrushable shell,
Broken in bits. The frozen
Light is too bright to be borne.
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