The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2008

Persimmons

So useful in metaphor:  better

to pick fruit from the tree than wait

for its fall to the ground and

the way leave-clothes wither away,

leaving behind what counts,

poignant winter tableaux

bare boughs bending with fruit.

But best is the way in this case at least,

ripeness really is all; and it is the young flesh

that is shrewish, too tightly set, too tart to eat,

absurdly acerbic, bitter, inedible

while the more mature Persimmon,

even wrinkled, even withered, even sunk

to deliquescence of melt,

is luscious flesh, the memory of youth

bare trace bitterness on the roof

of a mouth otherwise palated

with rich river pudding, plush and pulp,

soft-slide swallow delight

and sweet, sweet.

Rebecca Foust