Not even the beginning of summer, and knobs
of fruit in the tree begin to purple and glow 
through wrappers of green; but the young 
persimmon, all by itself near the fence, unless 
self-fruitful,  will need another cultivar to flower. 
Soon, the river's rim a block away is edged 
with sails. I marvel at how taut and sleek  
bodies look against the sand, like offerings 
to the sun— Once, I too buffed my shoulders 
and thighs, impatient for the world to take 
me whole and claim me for a future not yet lined 
with failure or regret. I held in my hands the fragrance
and roundness of a thing not yet cloven or hatched.
Long afterwards, I confess it still has my heart.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.