Persimmons
Remembered
The persimmon
tree was on the fence line
Growing there in
my childhood’s fertile soil,
Having been
planted no doubt by my grandfather
When he planted
the peach, pear, and plum trees—
Planted behind
and along the house not according to any plan,
But according to
a pure unrecorded, forgotten whim.
In autumn the
persimmon tree would bear its round beige fruit,
Offering the
fruit to the grasses straddling the fence line,
Leaving us to
run our hands likes rakes through the grass
To harvest the
exotic, the novel fruit.
In the mouth the
persimmon skin would protest,
Giving off an
unforgettable, unique flavor,
The flavor of
field and jungle, sea and meadow.
And the
persimmon’s precious stone-seed:
If split in half
would show an image of a knife and spoon.
We would walk
back to the house,
Eating one
persimmon after another,
Wondering about
the meaning of the knife and spoon.
--September 23,
2013
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