Persimmons Remembered


The persimmon tree was on the fence line
     Between the pasture and the field,

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