Once each year he goes to his secret stash,
a requirement because they’re seasonal.
This black walnut tree, whose woodland
whereabouts he will never disclose,
is ready to relinquish its riches.
He brings the bounty home
awaits the perfect ripen
harvests the hallowed nutmeats.
Once each year she bakes them,
a requirement but not a labor of love.
Dry earthy scent, mud colored, smooth
rock-hard 3” domed disappointments.
Brittle when bitten into, bitter to worried tastebuds
yet when dunked into taste-hiding milk
brown unmanageable mush materializes.
Spoons appear but are never used.
Once each year we reluctantly ride to this ritual,
a requirement because, well, they’re grandparents.
Brother & I whine, beg, try to wheedle our way
out of this awful annual adventure to no avail.
No one likes these nasty cookies—
even Grampa takes but two bites.
Neighbors decline bag offerings while
we receive plenty for our waiting trashcan.
Once each year Brother reminds me of the cookies
requirement, we laugh since the recipe seems to be missing.
Leslie,
Your poem is delightful. The structure and figurative language (you are a
Master of Aliteration) create wonderful images. And how I Iove your sense of humor!
Love this poem and the retelling of this humorous family memory!