Shucking the Heart

a poem

The heart is a wild fruit.
You'll find it in rich soil
    and in poor soil alike,
in the wet bottomlands soft and juicy,
crisp and tart on the dry mountainside.

Green or ripe both good in their way,
each fruit with a different savor:
the sugary gush of joy
    and pain the acrid bite,
love's refreshing tang
    and the salt of heartbreak,
nostalgia bittersweet
    and astringent resentment
    that puckers on the tongue,
the soft pulp of repose,
the fine grit of determination,
the hot spice of anger
    warns away the casual taster,
a silky fuzz, a smooth peel, a tough rind,
bland innocence
    or debauchery's yeasty ferment;
deliciousness is never simple!

The heart's flesh is delicate,
    easily bruised
    yet endlessly returning fresh.
I believe it can never rot nor wither.
But it grows a husk, dry and papery,
layer upon layer until you wonder:
can there be anything left inside?

Don't worry!
Shuck off the husks one by one,
and the fruit is still there
    even more delicious
    than you remembered.

—Jesse Crossen, C&O Canal Towpath, April 2022

black walnut shell and dandelions near Antietam Creek