Author: Mary Waterfield

I gather buckeyes.
Childhood burns in me.
A star never flaming out.
I gather what belongs to me.
What was made for me,
to run after in the grass.
A moon in a rosewood face.
The all seeing,
everlasting eye.
That’s what a buckeye is.
That’s what it’s meant to be.
A brilliant stone,
beautiful as a woman’s cheek.
To last as long
as an autumn day can last.
Gathering the wondrous seeds
of the buckeye tree.