The skin of the persimmon is not what it used to be
Who is to say that it is a less lovely sphere dulled to ripe auburn pulp
and although pecked, sun-patched.
The tree speaks them tenderly into being each season. Each in turn turns to teach
the turn to the one sweet heat.
A hachiya meets its appointments, matures beyond the astringent orange sheen,
reaching for Teresa reaching for Thérèse reaching for Teresa reaching for the utter center
of the divine diamond fruit, an arrow into flame
and in living flame, leaps and ignites the next. Incandescent in the setting gold embrace,
she gathers her ruddy round wisdom, flares her warm fragrance on high:
I have kept both fresh and mellowed in store for you, my love.
I can say I love ardently, I will say we cradle stars
I can say I hold the key, I will say we usher others through.
Root wither, wind bite and branch bend lead us here, a final kiss for the crumbling
leaf crown, a release of the heavy soft body
In the time of their visitation they will shine, and dart about as sparks through stubble;
Perhaps you will just make out the glimmer of each autumnal halo in the dusk,
and it will light something inside, in the juiced middle, near the seed-heart
Who is to say the puckered rusted red flesh
is less lovely when it may be taken,
consumed, and dissolved
into molecules into
acid nebula into
fusion into
fire
