Throwing Rocks at the Walnut Tree

I will try and alternate anything to sad or down with something not sad or down. LOL. Here is another poem I wrote. While I can remember Kemper and many, many things about those years; my home in Glasgow is also imprinted on me too.

Throwing Rocks at the Walnut Tree

In days gone past, during the fall, I'd go outside in the evening. My feet were tough enough for me to make my way from my back porch to the other side of the gravel road. There I would stand before the tree. It had been big for as long as I could remember. The moon would be bright enough to see by; I'd pick up rocks from the road and throw them at the green clumps that hung from the branches. If I was lucky I would be rewarded with the falling of two or three of the green. After a while I would clear all the lower branches. Then I would make futile throws at the ones higher up. Soon I would loose interest.

The cream colored moon glowed like a scoop of vanilla ice cream in the night sky. Like diamonds being poured onto black velvet, the stars cam out. Other lights, closer to the ground and me, would also begin to appear. Fireflies. Seeing them, I'd run into the house. Mom would fix me an old peanut butter jar with holes in the top. With it clutched in my tight little hands, I would burst through the screen door to the outside, where I'd put some grass in the bottom. Armed with this jar, i was ready to go on the hunt for those elusive fireflies of summer. The music of crickets and frogs the only sounds as I made my way through the fresh cut grass of the lawn, and my young days.