Early April, when it was given
free to our stewardship on arbor
day: thin sapling— out of a box 
with many others, sorted 
into piles on cold
park pavement: mostly 
apple or pear, and just 
so many
of persimmon. 
                            But we knew
it was persimmon we wanted,
reminiscent of mabolo
in the summers of our youth:
its ruddy color and velvety skin,
its orange-brown, puddling flesh 
when ripeness is only mouthfuls
away from rot. 
                                Whatever the world
here might overlook or consider
too difficult to adapt, we want
to harbor, knowing from our own
struggle to make it through
the seasons how some things
take a bit more care, more
watchful tending. 

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