I gather globe after globe, each dusky sweet streaked with the lingering trace of the not-yet-ripe and my hands with milky sap— sometimes they flower into itch and burn. In the heat, we say nothing about the plots we haven't cleared, the grass beginning to choke at the foot of a still very young persimmon. Not all in a garden flourish or fall together, as I've learned. Come, let's not hide our faces any longer until they burst from the effort of pretense. Let's just tune each other's clocks as well as we can.