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.